When Heaven Comes, I Swear It Comes In Love
by HedwigBlack
Summary: 100 stories. 100 pairings. Exploring the lives, loves, and lust of all our favorite Harry Potter characters. Chapter 32 is up! WOLFSTAR
1. DracoAstoria

**I signed up for the 100 Different Pairings Competition in which I have to write 100 different pairings using 100 different prompts. Due February 15! What have I gotten myself into?! I'll be combining with the various Boot Camps on HPFC and we'll see how this goes.**

**_As always, feel free to request a pairing and I will do my best. I will not write Dramione, but pretty much anything else goes. Just leave a review ;) _**

**__**Pairing: Draco/Astoria

Prompt: music

Pairing Diversity Boot Camp Prompt: piano

* * *

Draco's favorite part of Astoria's anatomy were her hands. They were small and plain; she never wore any jewelry and they were not manicured to perfection. But they held a strength that belied their appearance, and as soon as Draco took notice of them, he had in inexplicable urge to hold them forever.

It seemed a bit of an odd thing to notice. It's not as though she didn't have other amiable qualities. But the day she came over with her family for tea, she did something that made it impossible for Draco not to notice them.

As soon as she walked into the parlor, she commented on the baby grand piano sitting in the corner. It had always been there, though Draco never understood why; no one in the house knew how to play. Narcissa had tried and failed several years ago, and since that time, it had sat in the corner untouched.

"Do you play, dear?" Narcissa asked.

Astoria's face flushed pink in embarrassment. "A little," she said sheepishly, not taking her eyes off the instrument.

Mrs. Greengrass laughed at this response. "She's being modest, Narcissa. She's quite accomplished at it. Plays for hours at home."

"Really? I would love to hear you play, Astoria. Honestly, it's been ages since that thing has been used. It would be a shame if you didn't."

Astoria shook her head and opened her mouth to protest, but then Draco spoke up from his corner of the couch where up until then, he'd been silently observing the exchange. "Please," he said before he could stop himself. "I would also like to hear you." He earnestly met her eyes and she blushed even more, but it seemed he had convinced her. She got up and seated herself before the instrument and her face lit up at the prospect. There was no music to read, but she didn't need any and soon she was making beautiful sounds come out of that old piano.

It was slightly out of tune from lack of use, but Draco didn't care in the least. His gaze shifted from the blissful expression on her face to the tiny fingers dancing across the keys and he couldn't look away. Even when she'd finished, he was still staring at her fingers which she rested on the white keys, as if itching to continue. He wished she would.

In his trance, he hadn't noticed that his mother was speaking until he heard his name. "Wasn't that lovely, Draco?"

He looked up startled to see his mother giving him a shrewd look. "Oh…Yes, it was. Thank you, Astoria."

Astoria. The name just rolled off his tongue. And it tasted good.

* * *

The first time Draco kissed her, he'd been uncharacteristically shy about it. It wasn't anything like kissing other girls. She was small and delicate and he thought that if he touched her she might break.

But when he backed away, she smiled widely and grabbed his face in her hands, pulling him back in for more. And he realized that she wasn't as fragile as he'd thought. It was the first of many lessons she taught him about grabbing life with both hands. And when she'd snogged him properly she looked down at his forearm, tracing the faded tattoo with her fingers.

He winced, waiting for the blow to fall. She'd do it kindly and that would make it even worse. The offensive mark on his arm would always be the deal breaker, the unforgivable piece of his past that couldn't be erased. It would always be there to remind him that he was weak.

But instead of letting him down easy, she surprised him, which in itself was not a surprise at all; she was always doing that. She held up his hand and pressed her lips to his forearm as well. She kissed the little skull right on the mouth, and he stared at her in disbelief.

"What?" she asked innocently.

He considered pointing out the obvious, but the knowing look on her face told him that he should just drop the subject. He shook his head. "Nothing."

She'd played him like the piano. And he was all right with that.

* * *

When Scorpius was born, only Astoria could stop him from crying. She said it was just a thing that mother's do, but Draco knew better. There was a magic in her hands that wands knew nothing about.

They would rock their son to sleep and they never seemed to grow weary even when it was three in the morning. She would balance the baby in one hand and hold her wand in the other; not only that, but she did it gracefully. It was unnatural.

One night, Draco woke up to hear Scorpius crying in the next room. He got up and crept out of the room as quickly as possible before Astoria heard the noise. He went into the nursery and picked up his son and held him, trying his best to comfort the child. He found a pacifier and stuck it in Scorpius' mouth and breathed a sigh of relief when, the baby began to quiet down.

He sat in the rocking chair in the corner and settled himself with the baby in his arms and together they must have dozed off because before he knew it, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. He looked up to see Astoria smiling down at him.

"I didn't want to wake you," he whispered.

She nodded appreciatively and gingerly put Scorpius back in his crib, where he continued to sleep like a rock. She took his hand and led him back to their room and while both of them were very tired, they don't go to sleep right away. Draco entwined his fingers with hers and he thought about when it first occurred to him that he wanted to hold her hand like this forever. And it seemed so surreal that he actually could and that she would ever let him, even now.

She rested her head on his chest and he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. "I love you," he whispered.

Astoria smiled and settled into his embrace. "I love you too."


	2. BellatrixVoldemort

**Pairing: Bellatrix/Voldemort**

**Prompt: ear**

**Also for the Pairing Diversity Boot Camp with the prompt: "If you be the one to cut me, I will bleed forever."**

**Also entering this in Round 4 of Fanfiction Idol**

* * *

Bellatrix stood at the window watching the storm rage outside. The trees swayed in the wind and lightning lit up the night sky, illuminating the yard. A clap of thunder sounded and she could feel the ground tremble beneath her feet. It was exhilarating.

She swallowed hard and stood up straighter as she heard the door behind her open and close. She did not turn around; she already knew who it was. The atmosphere in the room always changed when he entered it. There was an electricity in the air that she could just sense somehow and it made her skin tingle. And she knew it had nothing to do with the elements outside.

"My Lord," she greeted him.

"Good evening, Bellatrix," he said quietly. He came up behind her and she could feel his cool breath against her ear. She made to turn and face him but he reached around and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to once again look out the window. "Look," he hissed and she shivered involuntarily. He ignored this and continued. "It's beautiful, isn't it? So dangerous and chaotic. Not unlike you."

Bellatrix beamed at this praise from him. She'd waited so long to hear it; he wasn't exactly free with his compliments. He put his hands on her shoulders and she could feel the cool, flat surface of a blade against her skin. He had a knife in his hand. She continued to stare out the window, determined to not let this faze her. He approved of her. He'd just said so. Her Master wouldn't hurt her now.

"Do you know the inconvenient thing about chaos, Bellatrix?"

She shook her head. "No, my Lord. I don't."

He smirked. "It's unpredictable. And I can't afford to have unpredictable servants, now can I?"

"Oh! Of course not, Master. Have I not always said that I am your most faithful, your most devoted servant? I shall do your bidding only and you can always know what to expect from me." She bit her lip to stop herself from continuing. He didn't like it when she rambled. And she was in great danger of going on.

He hummed his amusement at this bold profession of faithfulness. He ran the flat of his blade across her collarbone and observed her reaction with satisfaction. "Are you prepared to prove it to me? Will you truly do anything I ask?"

"Anything," she said breathlessly.

He slowly pulled the knife away from her shoulder and she sighed in relief, only for him to bring the blade up to rest against her cheek. "Would you even endure this? Would you endure the pain that only I could inflict?"

A clap of thunder caused her to jump and the knife poked her cheek, but it didn't break the skin. She gulped and did her best to tell him what he wanted to hear. "If you be the one to cut me, I will bleed forever. Would that please you, my Lord?"

"Forever." He repeated after her, thoughtfully. "Indeed, it would please me very greatly." He mercifully lowered the knife away from her face and she could breathe a little easier. "But, I think, I shall spare my most faithful servant. It would be such a waste, don't you agree?"

Bellatrix nodded. "Yes." The door slammed and he was gone before she could finish speaking. "Yes it would," she whispered.

She continued to watch the chaos outside and pondered the meaning of the word unpredictable.


	3. CharlieDraco

For MissingMommy who loves Charlie just as much as I do. :D

Prompt: Flame

Also for the Slash Boot Camp with the prompt: Chair

* * *

The front door opens and Draco looks up from the chair in the corner where he is sitting with a book. Charlie walks in and sets his bag down on the floor and slowly shrugs his jacket off his shoulders. Draco can already sense from Charlie's body language that he's gotten burned at work. Again.

Charlie doesn't mention it, though. He never does. He merely waves his good hand in greeting and goes into the bathroom to wash the day off of him. Draco settles back in his chair and winces a little when he hears the audible groans from the bathroom and he knows the injury must be pretty extensive.

Charlie always insists that getting burned is one of the many hazards that come with the job, but if there is one thing Draco has learned, it is that his boyfriend tends to be a little too reckless. He never knows when to quit, and his sense of self preservation is completely nonexistent. And Draco thinks that in some ways, these things are a blessing, because only someone like Charlie can put up with the likes of him. But when Charlie comes out of the bathroom and sits down on the couch with a jar of burn paste, he thinks that some days it would be nice if he wasn't such a Gryffindor.

Draco pretends to continue to read his book because asking how Charlie's day went is pointless. But he finds that the only thing he can concentrate on is the way the dragon handler surveys the damage with a grim look on his face. The flesh from his wrist to just above his elbow is red and raw and Draco feels queasy just looking at it. It's never been this bad before.

Charlie balances the jar of paste on his knee and starts to dress his wound, but doing it with one hand is awkward and Draco can't help but smirk as he realizes that Charlie is just as stubborn as he is. Of the two of them, Draco is always the one who refuses to ask for help and who refuses to acknowledge signs of weakness. It's just the way he was brought up. And normally, that isn't Charlie at all. But when it comes to his job, he insists that he's on his own. It's probably because up until now, he's always been alone, doing his own thing.

Draco knows better than to wait for Charlie to ask, so he sets his book down and moves to sit next to him on the couch. Before Charlie can protest, he grabs the jar of yellow paste.

"Nice," he says and holds Charlie's hand and inspecting the burn closer.

Charlie shrugs. "Hungarian Horntail," he explains. "I got in the way of its tail and it flamed, so I had to choose between the lesser of two evils."

He winces a little as Draco begins to spread the paste on his arm, starting at where the glove he wears ends at his wrist before moving upward. "Sorry," Draco says.

Charlie grins. "You're pretty good at this. Who would have thought?"

"Yeah, well, you don't have to do everything on your own, you know." Draco holds Charlie's hand, extending his arm so that he can put extra dressing on the inside of his arm where it bends. "You're not going to work tomorrow," he says pointedly. He knows Charlie will probably try to go in anyway, but bending his arm is impossible. There's no way he can do his job one-handed.

Charlie sighs and nods his head. "I know. They'll just send me home."

"A day off never killed anybody," Draco says and puts the top back on the jar, setting it aside. "Especially in your case."

Charlie chuckles and throws an arm around him before settling back into the couch. "There is a silver lining, though."

Draco catches the glint in his eye. "Oh, yeah? What's that?"

"I have my own dragon at home to keep me company."

The term of endearment never ceases to bring a smile to his face. He wonders if Charlie realizes what a big deal it truly is. "Yes, you do," he agrees and leans up to kiss him soundly. "And I promise to not breathe fire at you."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

Draco picks up his book once more and leafs through it until he finds where he left off. He then leans into Charlie's embrace breathing a sigh of contentment. "No problem."


	4. DracoGinny

Pairing: Draco/Ginny... just realized I'm writing a lot of Draco here... *shrugs*

For the prompt: kitchen

Also for the Pairing Diversity Boot Camp with the prompt: impetuous

* * *

It happened while they were fighting.

That's how interesting things always happened between them because, unlike most couples, when they fought, they said exactly what they meant to say. And even if it stung a little, it wasn't so bad because they both knew that whatever the other had said was absolutely true. There was just something comforting in the knowledge and neither Draco nor Ginny cared what anyone else thought about it.

And that day in the kitchen was no different. Draco didn't know where the words had come from. One minute Ginny was going on a rant about how he should keep his fat mouth shut and the next, he opened said fat mouth and blurted it out.

"I love you."

It was an impetuous confession; ill-timed and decidedly unromantic. But as soon as the words left his mouth, the weight he didn't know he'd been carrying lifted off his shoulders.

He flashed Ginny a rare smile as she splayed her hands on the island counter between them and stared at him in disbelief. "Excuse me?!" If it had been anyone else, she would have immediately assumed that he was saying it to keep himself in her good graces, but it was Draco. Draco never told her what he thought she wanted to hear. Draco never lied to her. And Draco _never_ said 'I love you.'

At least he hadn't up until then.

He marched around to her side of the counter and cupped her face in his hands, ensuring that he had her attention.

"You are gorgeous when you're angry. And you tell me all the time that I have a fat mouth, but I will always open it anyway. And to be honest, you are an absolute pain in my arse."

Her eyes flashed at that last comment, but he prevented her from interrupting him by sealing his mouth over hers. It didn't take long for her to relax and wrap her arms around his waist, which told him that she was calmed down enough to be reasonable. He pulled back and grinned down at her. "And I love you."

Her anger forgotten, Ginny smiled. "You'd better." Draco rolled his eyes and was once again about to open his fat mouth, but Ginny amended her statement. "I love you, too."

And as suddenly as it began, the fight was over. But somehow both of them won.


	5. HarryKatie

For my faithful reader yellow14 who asked for Harry/Katie. :) I hope it's okay that it came out more friendly than romantic…

Pairing: Harry/Katie

Prompt: Couch

Pairing Diversity BC Prompt: fire

* * *

Harry tossed in his bed for hours, but sleep would just not come. There were too many things weighing on his mind and Neville's snores from across the room didn't help. He knew Draco Malfoy was up to something and he was disappointed that neither Ron nor Hermione seemed to care. He thought at least Ron would support his theory but he seemed preoccupied with Lavender. And Hermione was preoccupied with not being upset about it.

Harry stared at the ceiling for a few more minutes before finally giving up on sleep and rolling out of bed. He quietly put on his robes and went down to sit in the common room for a while. Perhaps the couch would be more comfortable. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, however, he found that someone else had the same idea.

Katie Bell was sitting on the end of the couch before the fireplace, hugging her knees with an odd look on her face. Harry couldn't quite figure out if she was sad or angry and he approached with caution. It had only been a few weeks since she'd returned from St. Mungo's after the incident in Hogsmeade. He hadn't seen much of her, but he knew enough about the Dark Arts to know that she wasn't going to recover that quickly.

As he got closer to where she was sitting, she snapped out of her daze and jumped in her seat. Seeing who it was, she slumped back against the cushions and closed her eyes.

Harry sat on the far side of the couch. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

Katie smiled sadly over at him. "It's all right. I was out of my head a little there."

"Yeah…" Harry nodded and the phrase immediately brought disturbing visions of Voldemort to his mind. "I know how that is."

They sat in silence a while longer and Katie continued to stare into the fire crackling in the grate absentmindedly stroking the red scar that was clearly visible on her palm. Harry felt as though he ought to say something. But comforting words were never all that helpful to him and he wasn't sure what he could say to make her feel better either. As he opened his mouth to stumble over something stupid and cliché, she spoke, leading the conversation.

"Do you think we'll ever be okay?"

He smiled sadly at her and shifted so he was sitting closer to her on the couch. "Okay is…relative. I don't think I've ever truly been okay, really,"

Katie nodded her head in resignation. "At least you're honest."

"You know what, though?" Harry again leaned closer and gingerly put an arm around her shoulder because it seemed the right thing to do. She still had her arms around her knees, but at his touch she relaxed and leaned against his shoulder and took a shaky breath. "You might not be okay, but I promise you'll be fine."

"Fine," she repeated, and he knew that she understood the difference. Fine meant many things. But never okay. "I'll be fine," she said. "I think I can live with that."

"We do what he have to," Harry replied and settled comfortably into the couch and soon they both had fallen asleep.


	6. GinnySirius

Pairing: Ginny/Sirius

For the prompt: bed

Written in under 1 HOUR for Lady's Hardest Challenge Ever with the prompt: Let It Go

Also for the Pairing Diversity Boot Camp with the prompt: aimlessly

* * *

Ginny got up from her place at the kitchen table and went off in search of some amusement. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was nice in that there was always someone around, but with the date of Harry's arrival approaching, the Order had been particularly busy. Now the house was practically empty but for Sirius, the Weasley children, and Hermione, which to anyone else might not seem empty. But it sure felt that way to Ginny.

The twins were locked up in their room doing something they shouldn't be, Hermione was somewhere talking with Ron about Harry, and Sirius was nowhere to be found. Ginny sighed and started to wander aimlessly around the house, peering into rooms that were dusty and dank from being empty for so long. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the house elf heads that lined the wall on the way up the stairs.

She usually passed by the bedrooms on the second floor, since they had belonged to Sirius and his family growing up. She had no business in them. However the sound of glass shattering grabbed her attention and she stopped just outside the door at the far end of the hallway.

She heard a voice inside that she immediately recognized as Sirius' and she paused, wondering if she should continue on. Her curiosity got the better of her, however, and she tapped lightly on the door before slowly pushing it open.

Sirius sat on his bed, clenching and unclenching his fists and staring straight ahead without seeing. A haunted look had taken over his face that Ginny rarely saw and she had to admit it frightened her a little bit. Azkaban clearly had left its mark on him and she sincerely doubted it would ever go away.

When he realized he was not alone, Sirius snapped out of his reverie and gave her a weak smile. "Hey, Ginny."

"Hi," she said, quietly and took a few tentative steps forward. "Can I come in? I heard something break in here."

"Oh. Right…" Sirius said, and rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. He gestured to the mirror that hung on the far wall across from where he was sitting. Now that Ginny was inside the room she could see that he must have thrown something at it causing the glass to shatter and fall out of its frame. "Just letting off some steam."

Ginny took in the rest of the room. It was decorated in the Gryffindor colors and Muggle posters plastered the walls. She smirked at the few featuring scantily clad girls and shook her head. He followed her eyes and snorted. "Typical teenage boy's room, eh?"

"Yeah. It is. I know enough about them, believe me."

Sirius raised his eyebrows at her and she realized how that statement probably sounded. She sat down and punched his arm playfully. "I meant I have six brothers, you arse."

"Sure, you did."

They sat a few more moments in awkward silence and Ginny tried to look at her reflection in what was left of the mirror on the wall. "Is it weird?" she finally asked. "Being back here?"

Sirius nodded and looked down at his hands. "I keep telling myself that I should just let it go. It's just a house and this…" he waved his hand at the posters and books and Gryffindor paraphernalia, "…is all just stuff, but it's odd coming in here and seeing everything just as I left it."

Ginny rested her head on his shoulder and smiled gratefully. Sirius hadn't wanted to talk to anyone about being back in his old house, except to lash out at people. Her mother had tried a couple of times, but Sirius wasn't too keen on talking to her, and she'd finally given up. For some reason, the fact that he was opening up to Ginny meant a lot to her.

"Sirius?"

"Hmm?"

"It makes me sad to see you sad."

Sirius looked down at her in surprise. "I'm not…"

"Yes, you are."

He sighed and shifted so he was facing her. His expression had softened and just for that moment the haunted look in his eye disappeared and she could see what the old Sirius must have been like. And the young, pre-Azkaban, worry-free Sirius was much more preferable than the brooding, bitter one that had been sitting next to her a moment ago. "Don't worry about me, Ginny. I'm fine. And making you sad makes me sad more than anything."

She didn't know why she did it. Afterwards, she realized how inappropriate it probably was. Even the fact that she was sitting with Sirius on his bed would have made her mother furious. But Ginny did it anyway because she was impulsive and it seemed like a good idea at the time, as really bad ideas always seemed to do.

She put her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. He sat there motionless for a moment, completely taken aback. He reached up and patted her back in a would-be soothing fashion. When she didn't pull away, he put both arms around her waist and held her closer and his whole body relaxed as he gave in. "Thanks," he said. "I guess I needed that."

Ginny's mind raced as she considered her next move. He had just experienced an innocent hug, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she wanted it to be something more. It was mortifying to realize this while she had her arms around him and she hoped he didn't sense how nervous she was. It was wrong and she wanted it for all the wrong reasons and she searched for a way to make a graceful escape without causing too much embarrassment for both of them.

"Any time," she said, pulling back and before she could stop herself, she leaned up and kissed his cheek. Again, he gave her a flabbergasted look and she recognized that a graceful escape was impossible, so she decided to settle for a quick one. She made it halfway to the door, before he grabbed her arm to stop her.

"Ginny…"

A door slammed downstairs and loud screeching could be heard in the front hallway. Sirius' mother had woken up. Sirius groaned and looked from Ginny's face to the door, before slumping his shoulders and leaving the room to go shut his mother up. "Home, sweet, home," she heard him grumble.

Ginny quickly headed for her room and pressed her back against the door and breathed a sigh of relief. That damn portrait had finally done something useful.


	7. BillFleur

Prompt: cinnamon

Also for the Pairing Diversity Boot Camp with the prompt: caramelized

* * *

Bill awoke to the scent of cinnamon and apples and grinned. He looked over to see that the place where his wife normally lay was empty. It wasn't very often that Fleur got up before him; he was an early riser by nature. But lately she'd taken to getting up at ungodly hours of the morning to cook something. She said it gave her something to do when she couldn't sleep and the growing baby inside of her seemed to approve.

He sprawled out for a moment on the bed before getting up and pulling on a pair of socks and a tee shirt. As he quietly made his way into the kitchen, he could hear a couple of pots clanging in the sink and the low sound of his wife humming some Celestina Warbeck song or other.

He stood in the doorway and smiled at her fondly. She was most beautiful when she didn't know she was being watched. When she was in company, what Veela charm she possessed was always turned on and every feature was groomed to perfection. Her shiny silver-blonde hair was always straight and neat, her nails manicured to perfection. There certainly was never a blemish to be seen on her porcelain skin. And Bill thought she was beautiful then too. But when no one was around to care, and it was just the two of them in the kitchen, he though she was absolutely stunning.

At the moment, her hair was pulled up into a bun on top of her head out of the way. There was a tiny streak of flour that graced her cheek, and her hands were covered in dough and sugar. While most would look at her and think she'd do anything to avoid getting her hands dirty, Bill knew better. She gently swayed her hips as she moved over to the stove to check on the caramelized apples, and she looked up to see him watching her. "Good morning," she greeted him and hurriedly tried to wipe her hands on her apron.

He came to stand behind her and reached around to gently massage her stomach that had begun to grow very quickly in the past few weeks. A small hint of movement beneath his fingers told him that their child was awake and kicking. He pressed his lips to the side of her neck and hummed in contentment. "Do you have a sweet tooth this morning, _mon coeur_?" he asked as she somehow managed to make a plate of crepes and apples for both of them while he continued to hold her from behind.

Fleur turned off the stove with a flick of her wand before turning in his arms and placing a kiss on his cheek. "I 'ave to give baby what she wants, no?"

He drew up a chair and sat down, drawing her closer so she was standing before him, his face level with the swell of her pregnant belly. He kissed it gently and placed his hands on either side. He could feel a sharp kick against his hand and he looked up to see Fleur smiling down at him. "She loves you already," she said. She winced as the baby kicked again. "And I'm ready for 'er to come out."

"I love her too," Bill replied and pulled his wife to sit on his lap. "I love both of you. But I don't know if I'll ever be ready for her to come out."

Fleur just snuggled against him and yawned. "I 'ave faith in you."

"Thanks."

The apples grew cold, but neither of them cared.


	8. NicolasPerenelle

Prompt: delight

For the Pairing Diversity Boot Camp with the prompt: forever

Also for Lady's Hardest Challenge ever which I failed, but which helped very much to inspire. :)

* * *

Little Perenelle trudged through the tiny field of dandelions that separated the main road from the village where she lived. It looked as though it was about to rain and she walked quickly so that she wouldn't get caught in it. Her mother would kill her if she ruined another pair of shoes. She gripped her bag of vegetables tighter and looked up startled when she realized that someone had come up to fall in step beside her.

"Hello," the boy said, gallantly taking her bag without even introducing himself.

She looked at him quizzically but decided that at least he was polite. She stuck her nose up in the air as if to suggest that this act of chivalry would not get very far with her. "Hello," she replied.

"My name's Nicolas."

"I'm Perenelle. Were you following me?" she asked.

"'Course not. I just happen to be going in the same direction."

She looked at the boy out of the corner of her eye. His brown hair was mussed and he wasn't the cleanest boy she'd seen in the village. But something about the way he was looking at her but not really seeing her was intriguing. His mind was clearly working very hard behind his eyes.

She thought he seemed suspicious and she maintained a steely silence until they reached her front door. Her coldness did not seem to bother the boy at all and he merely handed her bag back to her and ran off with a friendly wave.

She cocked her head to the side and watched him run away and she thought that perhaps she should have been nicer to him.

* * *

It was a few years later before they really spoke again and Perenelle had honestly forgotten all about him until they crossed paths in the same field that was overgrown with dandelions. She didn't recognize him at first, but then she met his eyes and she saw that same glassy look. He was looking at her but he was seeing something else. Yet, his gaze was oddly penetrating and it made her shiver not unpleasantly.

"You again," she said.

"Yes," he nodded. "Me again."

"I haven't seen you in the village recently. Have you been hiding?"

"No," he responded and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I was sent away to magic school."

Perenelle shot him a jealous look. "I wanted to go to magic school, but Father says ladies should not be overeducated."

Nicolas laughed. "It's not as pleasant as you would think. It's a lot of hard work and magic isn't as easy as I thought it would be. My parents make it look effortless."

Perenelle's eyes lit up as she realized he was holding his wand in his hand and looking at it in disappointment. "Can you show me some magic?" she asked.

His eyes glinted mischievously. "Of course!" He stopped and waved the wand dramatically as though he were a conductor in front of an orchestra. The dandelions in the field began to grow larger and soon they were dancing as if the wind was blowing. Perenelle clapped her hands in delight. Behind them they heard a window snap open.

"In broad daylight! What were you thinking, Nicky?!"

They turned to see Nicolas's mother pointing an accusing finger at him before snapping it shut again.

He stowed his wand back into his pocket and shrugged. "I should go."

"Yes," she said quietly as he walked away. Then she bit her lip and shook her head at how nonsensical it was that she wanted him to stay.

* * *

It was a few more years before she saw him again. It was strange that no matter how many months passed whenever she walked across the field she thought she was sure to meet him. And then one day she finally did.

"Have you finished school?" she asked.

"Finally."

"And can you show me more magic?" she asked eagerly.

He smiled at her and held out his hand. "I can do better than that."

She eyed his hand warily and she once again felt as though she were the little girl from so many years ago who didn't know what to make of a strange little boy.

"Come with me," he said. "I'll show you the meaning of forever."

Perenelle struggled not to roll her eyes. They all promised her forever. It's the line men used to try and sweep women off their feet. But she was no fool and she knew what the word forever meant.

So why did she go anyway?

Perhaps she realized that they would always be promising forever and perhaps she was used to being let down. She couldn't say for sure. But when little Nicky Flamel who wasn't so little any more held out his hand, she took it without hesitation. And he proved her wrong about everything she thought she knew.

He was adventurous and he'd always been a little foolish, brilliant though he was. It was an odd mixture of intelligence, brawn, and recklessness that made life interesting to say the least. She never knew what he would do next. And she liked it that way.

He taught her magic and insisted that being overeducated never hurt anybody. She could make flowers dance all on her own and he taught her everything he'd learned from magic school. She transfigured things just because she felt like it and for some reason he seemed to enjoy watching her.

He took her places she'd only read about in books just because he could. And he showed her life outside the little village where they'd grown up.

But she had never counted on the fact that he really would show her the meaning of forever. It was wholly unexpected and she couldn't believe her eyes when one day he came home with a bottle of a clear substance that he'd concocted.

"What is that?" she asked.

"Forever," he said simply. The mischievous glint was in his eye and she shook her head at him.

"You are impossible, Nicolas," she said and set the bottle down before walking over to the fireplace to make some tea.

"What do you mean?" He followed her and put a hand to her cheek. "I promised you forever, didn't I?"

"You didn't mean it, though," she said automatically. "You can't…"

He raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms "I can't what?"

She looked from the smug look on his face to the little vial of liquid on the table. "You can't put forever in a bottle! You just can't."

He just grinned and pressed his forehead to hers. "But I can, dearest. And I did." He picked up the bottle once more and took out the stopper. "So what do you say?"

Her heart pounded as she realized what he'd done. Or at least what he claimed to have done. And no matter how unlikely it seemed, she knew if anyone could put forever in a bottle, it was Nicolas Flamel.

"We can learn the meaning of forever together," he said and she watched in horror as he raised the vial to his lips and swallowed some of the clear liquid down.

"Together," she repeated. He nodded encouragingly and with shaky hands she took the bottle from him and quickly drained the rest of the liquid-forever.

"How does it taste?" he asked smugly.

She set the bottle down and clung to him as the reality of what she'd done came over her. But when she pressed her lips to his she had to confess the truth. "Sweet," she said. "Forever tastes sweet."


	9. LilyTeddy

Prompt: tall

Also for the Pairing Diversity Boot Camp with the prompt: scattered

* * *

You take her hands in yours and you wonder what took you so long. And when you look down at her, you can tell that she's thinking the same thing. Neither of you say a word, though, for fear that this is just a delusion; a wildly beautiful figment of your imagination.

She's all green eyes and strawberry blonde hair and a smile that lights up a room. But she's always been that way; you just never noticed before. But now you see she's grown up so tall that the top of her head reaches your chin. And she's still got her hair in that messy braid that you always thought was adorable back when she was twelve. But she's not little Lily Luna anymore.

No.

She's Lily; Lily Potter. And she knows what she wants. And she wants you.

She's so close now that you can see every freckle scattered across her nose, and you can feel her breath against your neck. It's intoxicating, and you're contemplating doing the unthinkable.

Until…

"Teddy?"

You jump back with a start and there's a flash in Lily's eyes that makes you wary. You slowly turn to face Victoire in the kitchen doorway, wondering if she knows what she's seeing.

She doesn't. She's busy searching through her purse. She looks up and raises her eyebrows at the guilty look on your face.

"Let's go," she says and heads for the front door.

And you follow without looking back.


	10. TheoLuna

Prompt: Maybe

This is also my entry for the My Future Self Competition

* * *

_Wrackspurts and Beautiful Delusions_

Dear Future Luna Lovegood,

I wonder if you will read this. Or is it I wonder if _I _will read this? My pronouns get confused when I talk to myself. Perhaps I am as loony as they say. I've been told talking (or in this case, writing) to oneself is a sure sign that someone is going crazy.

But this is important, and I always write important things down, otherwise my head will become full of other things, and I'll forget. I am writing this so that months or years or decades from now, when you are all alone, and you find this in the bottom of your sock drawer, you will remember that you knew all along how it would be.

I can already feel the Wrackspurts in my brain, making it go all fuzzy. I can feel them in me, all around me, and I welcome them with open arms because they give me hope. They create in my mind the beautiful delusion that Theodore Nott will always be mine. That he will always reach for my hands every morning and tell me that they're cold and kiss my fingers. That he'll still be there to go Freshwater Plimpy fishing with me even though he says he hates it. He doesn't hate it, by the way. Don't let him fool you.

The silence between us is loud. We can hear each other thinking, hoping, doubting. And he loves me and I love him and I want that to be enough. But he thinks he needs to save me from himself because he thinks he's a bad person. And I will whisper in his ear all night long that he is good and he is beautiful and bad things happen to good, beautiful people so that they can remember they are human. And he'll tell me that I am right to make me happy, but I know he doesn't mean it. So all I can do is interpret his silence as a maybe. Maybe he will stay. Maybe he will try to love me right. And for now those maybes will sustain me.

I do not have the gift of foresight, but I know that one day he won't be there to love me. I know it like I know that Nargles do, in fact, exist and all those other things that people say are impossible. But I'll admit the impossibility of everything I've ever believed in if it means I'll hold Theo in my arms forever.

And I hope that you will read this and look over at him and smile because you know you've proven yourself wrong. Or maybe you will watch him sleep as I am doing now, and you will have that feeling that it's bound to happen soon, and you're just waiting on the edge of something tragic.

Do you know it too? Is he with you now? Does he still make you smile? Does he still love me… you…us? More importantly, does he love himself?

I hope that I am wrong. I hope that he will choose love over fear. I hope he keeps you.

But if he doesn't, do not say I didn't tell you so. And don't be mad at me for letting the Wrackspurts make nests in the corners of my brain. Perhaps they will breed there and make more Wrackspurts, and then I can live in a beautiful daydream where reality doesn't matter anymore, and all I will see is Theodore's face. That sounds nice, don't you think?

I think so too.

So before they take me away, I will end this with hope because I still have some. And as long as this is true, know that I will forever be…

-Yourself


	11. KingsleyRosmerta

Prompt: Auror

Who doesn't love a good freeverse? ;)

* * *

You don't know how it happened,

how he went from being _just another customer_

to a **friend**

to…_**something else.**_

And you hate to admit that you

_want_

**L**ove?

need

him.

But you do, damnittohell,

you _need_ him.

And it's nothing to do with the fact

that he's an **Auror**

(though it helps)

and **it's not because** you're scared

(you're absolutely not)

It's just that he's STRONG in ways that you can't be.

He's your rock amid a ~stormy sea~

of butterbeer and .:loose change:.

He's arms to ((wrap around)) you

to stave off the **c_o_l_d_.**

He's that deep, reassuring voice

that can heal _all_ the wounds

inside your soul

you didn't even know you had

and it hurts so, so good.

And deep down, _**he loves you**_

Though not in so many words

(Three words neither of you will say)

But there is time [enough] for words

Time enough for _a lot_ of other things

For **now** though,

you spend nights sprawled on countertops

with the _**shades**_ drawn

and it is enough.

Because _he's Kingsley_

and he's t.h.e.r.e

And for however long he stays,

he's _yours._

"All yours, love."

So you'll take what you can get

And hope_pray_**believe **

that when morning comes,

he'll be there to say

"Good morning."


	12. SeamusLavender

Prompt: hair

Also for the Pairing Diversity Boot Camp with the prompt: meticulously

* * *

Lavender stood near the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room while she waited for Parvati to come back down from the dormitory. Her friend was taking a particularly long time and she was beginning to get impatient. They'd be late to Divination if she didn't hurry along.

Out of habit she pulled out a compact mirror from her bag. Flipping it open, she studied her appearance from a few different angles, ensuring that her hair was still as meticulously groomed as it had been that morning. She tucked a few stray strands behind her ear, and picked at an imaginary flake of mascara at the corner of her eye.

Unfortunately, the mirror was too small for her to notice the assailant who had come to stand behind her, eyeing her with amusement. She felt a slight pressure on the back of her head and she yelped, dropping her bag and the tiny mirror on the floor.

"Seamus!"

He chuckled and continued to muss up her hair with his fingers, while she half-heartedly attempted to swat his hands away. After a moment, though, she gave up, and grudgingly resigned herself to her fate. He rolled his eyes and backed off, smirking at his fuming girlfriend, who was now standing with her arms folded and giving him an icy glare. It was especially hilarious seeing her in this state when her blonde curls were stuck up at odd angles and covering half her face.

"That was not funny," she said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, but it was."

Lavender mumbled something incomprehensible and picked up her mirror off the floor to take a look at the damage he'd caused. Her face glowed red when she saw her reflection.

Again, Seamus had to roll his eyes. She was such a _girl_.

He grabbed the mirror out of her grasp and shoved it in his pocket, and then smoothed the hair out of her face. "You ought to know by now, I like you just the way you are, love."

"Yeah, well…" But whatever she'd been going to say remained caught in her throat as he pressed his lips to hers and suddenly the fingers running through her hair weren't so unwelcome. And by the time Parvati made it down the stairs to drag her friend to class, Lavender had completely forgotten why she was angry in the first place.


	13. SeamusDean

Prompt: parchment

Also for my Slash Boot Camp with the prompt: Explosion

* * *

The candlelight flickers and the words on the parchment swim before your eyes. The ink is still wet, and the lines are uneven, but you never were that good with a quill, were you? No. That wasn't you.

You look down at your watch.

It's late.

It's very late.

It's _too_ late.

But you stay up and write it all down anyway because there's nothing else you can do. And there's no one else to turn to. Neville is snoring, and Harry and Ron are probably dead, and Dean is…somewhere. You hope.

You have to hope because the alternative is unthinkable. And you know you'll never forgive yourself if you never get to say what you truly feel deep down. But you always did have trouble saying exactly what you meant, didn't you, Seamus? It was always the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person and somehow everything would explode. And then the smoke would clear and it was always you and Dean.

Always you and Dean. And for you it's always been Dean. You can't help but wonder if he knows.

But now things are different, and it's not you and Dean anymore. It's just you amid the wreckage, all black eyes and bloody noses and torture sessions disguised as detentions. Alone in a sea of "blood traitors".

Your vision is no longer shaky, and the words on the page jump out at you, and they are rather overwhelming, but you know that it's because they're true.

_I love you, Dean_. Merlin, who says it just like that? But it's the truth and you wish there was a way to say it to his face. You wish you knew where to send this letter and if he'd be alive to open it. You wish you'd told him before he left; then at least you would have the comfort of knowing that he knew, whatever that would mean.

But for now, writing letters you'll never send must suffice, and it's killing you.

You blow the candle out and roll the parchment up before adding it to the pile in your trunk. The clumsily written prose still runs through your brain on a long, tortuous, regretful loop.

_I miss you, Dean. I'm sorry, Dean. Where are you, Dean? I love you, Dean._

"I love you," you whisper to no one and fall asleep.


	14. TeddyLuna

Prompt: breath

Pairing Diversity Boot Camp prompt: denial

Cross-gen Boot Camp prompt: sanity is overrated

Teddy/Luna is a **M&MWP**. It's also more fun than I anticipated! :D

* * *

You're stuttering, Teddy. You're stuttering and sweating and uncharacteristically unsure. You think you might be sick. Or maybe you're just delusional. Because you look at her and you get light-headed and start daydreaming things that make you nervous in case she can read your mind. If anyone could, it would be her.

In any case, she can read between the lines of everything you're saying but not saying. And she's the first to tell you the truth you're too embarrassed to admit because in cases such as this, denial is so much easier.

But she doesn't bother her pretty, Wrackspurt-filled head about what's easier, does she? And you won't pretend you don't like that. And the thing is she sees you. All of you. Not blue-haired Teddy. Not Teddy the orphan. Not Harry Potter's godson. Just you, Teddy, and all the possibilities that entails- possibilities you didn't know existed.

She's too close, and yet not close enough and you're hesitant to bridge the gap.

_Do it, Teddy. Give in, Teddy. Just this once. You know you want to. What are you-_

"What are you waiting for, Teddy?" she asks, confirming your earlier suspicions. You can feel the blush begin to spread across your cheeks and in this moment your really hate how despite being a Metamorphmagus, you never did learn to control it.

She looks at you expectantly, her head cocked to the side, and the years between you don't seem to exist anymore. She takes a step forward and puts her hands on your shoulders. You shake your head; she must be joking. "What?" you ask.

"I said what are you waiting for, Teddy? Why haven't you kissed me yet?"

"Wha- what?"

"I know you want to."

_Of course she does._

"I wouldn't mind."

_Is she insane?_ And before you know it, you're saying it out loud. "Are you insane?"

Instead of being offended, she furrows her brow in confusion. "I've been accused of insanity before. It always sounded very unpleasant. No, no, I don't think I'm insane." Her arms are snaking their way around your neck, now, and her breath is warm against your face as she whispers in your ear. "But if this _is_ insane, then I think that maybe sanity is overrated."

You think she might be right.


	15. ColinJustin

Prompt: picture

Pairing Diversity Boot Camp prompt: picture perfect

* * *

You spend the **first ten years** of your life

collecting /moments/ in photo albums

that no one cares to look at

but you.

They are clumsy pictures, slightly _out_ of FoCuS,

but you like them best that way.

They're **so much** better than fam[ily] portraits in the living room

where you stand _awkward_ly b/e/t/w/e/e/n your parents,

strangled by a .:bowtie:.

But "picture perfect" is how they like you,

so you smiled for the camera anyway.

You leaf through the pages you've filled, studying those {stationary} moments in time.

…Your brother clutching a tire swing…

…a couple you don't know holding hands at the mall…

…a homeless man on a street corner…

all **perfectly imperfect**.

And you suppose they are _enough._

(What is enough, really?)

Until…

You get a **letter** in the mail,

and you go into a shop where a _wand _chooses _you,_

and you take a {boat ride} across a lake toward a castle that looks like it belongs in a book of

_**fairy tales**_.

You take pictures of them all so you don't forget how _magical_ magic really is.

And then you find out that in this world, pictures can _move_.

So you continue collecting moments in their entirety-

**punches **being thrown, a fall from a broomstick,

a boy whose lightning shaped scar you can't see

because you can only ever capture the back of his head as he _**walks away**_.

Then you see a pair of eyes,

you press a button,

and suddenly six months of your life are

m

i

s

s

i

n

g

.

You **existed **but you don't ((remember)) any of it.

And there are no photographs _to prove_ they happened.

But none of that matters now,

because you're finally awake,

your eyes are b.l.i.n.k.i.n.g ever so slowly,

and they are as dry as leaves

that have fallen to the ground.

You look over to the neighboring hospital bed

and he's the **first** one you see when you wake up.

And you can tell that he, too, has forgotten [how to feel].

You don't know his name,

but he's wearing a yellow Hufflepuff tie,

and a tear of relief on his cheek.

You summon all your strength

and reach out to press your fingertips to his.

And you are a little glad that there is no camera to witness this,

no_ flashbulb_ to ruin the moment.

You collect it in your memory instead,

and his grin says that it's okay to exaggerate it a bit

because there's no one around to tell you you're wrong.

And later you find out his name is **Justin**

and he's a little shy

and he doesn't have a scar on his forehead,

but he always looks the camera in the face…er… lens…

and it's always with a smile.

But some days you just leave it in your dorm and those are the best.

It's then that you teach each other how to _**feel**_ again.

Softly.


	16. PercyOliver

prompt: Quidditch

PD Boot Camp prompt: oblivious

* * *

Percy looked up from his notes as Charlie walked into the room they were sharing and started packing his things. After the Battle of Hogwarts his older brother had managed to get leave from work for a few months to be around for his family. Percy, on the other hand, had decided to come home to make up for his recent bout of gittish-ness. And while the two of them had been absent from the Burrow for different reasons, they'd both been grateful that the other was around so they had someone who could understand the guilt that was associated with being _gone_.

But his time with them was up and Charlie had a Portkey back to Romania scheduled for the end of the week. Their mother was beside herself over it, so Percy had taken refuge in his room. Thankfully, no one seemed to mind.

Percy turned in his chair to face his brother. "Need any help?"

Charlie shook his head and straightened up. He eyed the papers in Percy's hand. "Taking work home again, Perce? Don't get me wrong; I'm just as bad. But staying cooped up in your room is no way to live, mate."

Percy merely shrugged because he didn't have a valid argument. Charlie always was the sensible brother who would call it how he saw it. When he left for Romania, there were some days that Percy thought the Burrow had truly lost its voice of reason.

Percy sat back in his chair and threw his work aside and rubbed his eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses. "Where were you, anyway?" he asked.

Charlie did not look up as he continued to throw his things haphazardly into his trunk. "Went to lunch."

"With who?"

"Oliver Wood."

Percy attempted to look as though the name did not stir up a surge of emotions that were threatening to explode inside him. He adjusted his glasses on his nose and leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees and looked down at his shoes, attempting to feign disinterestedness. "Oh?"

"Yeah. You know… it had been a while and he was my old Quidditch mate back in Hogwarts. Thought we could catch up…" Charlie said, also playing his part well at pretending to be oblivious. He looked about him for something, but it appeared that it was not to be found in the room. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and he spouted out a piece of seemingly useless information before heading for the door. "He has the day off tomorrow."

Percy looked up to briefly meet his eye and for a moment they held a silent conversation just like they used to do when they were teenagers. The look in Charlie's eye clearly said, 'What are you going to do about it?'

Percy just nodded and grabbed his notes again for the sake of having something in his hands to do. Charlie grinned smugly at him and left him to his thoughts that no longer had anything to do with the Ministry of Magic.

* * *

Percy walked the familiar streets and as Oliver's house came into view, he started to slow down. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stood for a moment, unsure if he should go on. This had seemed a much better idea when he was sitting in his room. But now that he was just feet away, he was beginning to have second thoughts.

The overwhelming feeling of déjà vu came over him as he recalled the last time he'd been standing here on the street. It was after he'd packed his things and left Oliver's house about three years ago. Only back then, he wasn't Percy Weasley; he was _Weatherby_.

He forced his feet to move until he was knocking on the door and pondering how this could be so difficult. Making amends with his family had been one thing, but facing Oliver was a daunting prospect. And then the door opened.

"Bloody hell." Oliver leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. His body language suggested he wasn't mad, however the look on his face said otherwise. Percy didn't blame him. "What did Charlie say to you?" Oliver asked suspiciously.

"Honestly? Nothing."

"Figures." Oliver jerked his head in invitation and turned to go into the house. Percy followed awkwardly and took a few steps inside the living room. It looked exactly the same; the books on the shelf were still dusty from lack of use, Quidditch paraphernalia plastered the walls, a couple of pictures were still hanging in their frames. His eyes lingered on the one of him, his arm thrown around Oliver's shoulder after a Gryffindor Quidditch match against Slytherin. And it really hit him just how much he'd screwed up. It was like punch to the gut, and it was all he could do not to double over.

Oliver followed his gaze, but didn't seem to feel anything at all. Instead, he crossed his arms and planted his feet firmly on the ground in a defensive stance. "I'm sorry about Fred," he said, his voice softer than Percy had anticipated.

The red-head mutely nodded his thanks and shuffled his feet. He didn't want to talk about Fred. He didn't want to dance around the subject. Oliver was just torturing him now. Damn it, why did he have to be such an idiot? He opened his mouth and tried to form the words, but the apology he'd rehearsed didn't seem good enough now.

Oliver didn't wait for him to speak. He continued asking all the wrong questions. "Still working for the Ministry?"

Percy nodded. "For my dad," he said.

Oliver raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah. Shacklebolt's been doing quite a bit of damage control since the war ended and the Ministry's practically being rebuilt from the ground up. Dad's been consulted on a lot of it and I've been helping out around the office. It's the least I could do, you know?"

"Yeah…"

The awkward silence that followed was unbearable. Percy wondered if Oliver could hear his heart beating against his ribcage. And he'd thought apologizing to his family would be hard. This? This was too much. Because it was Oliver, and there was no way in hell that things could ever go back to the way they were before. It had been years, and people had died, and Percy had changed hopefully for the better, and Oliver…well… who really knew what Oliver had gone through? Percy didn't. Because he'd walked out. Or maybe, he'd been kicked out. It was probably a combination of the two.

Percy swallowed thickly and looked down at his shoes. "I…" he began, but Oliver held up his hand.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Apologize. This is just as much my fault as it is yours. So don't."

Percy thought that hearing something like that from Oliver would be a relief, but somehow it wasn't. He _needed _to apologize. He _needed_ to own up for his mistakes. And it used to be that Oliver would be able to force him to say the things he'd never openly admit to anyone else. It was that constant in their friendship, and later, in their relationship that Percy could always depend on. A few years wasn't going to change that; that much he knew. But now Oliver was going to tell him it didn't matter? What kind of bullshit was that?

"What kind of bullshit is that?" Oliver's eyes widened in shock at the outburst which only made Percy angrier. "I finally get up the courage to apologize to you after everything I put you through, after all the grief you gave me about being a selfish prat? And you don't want to hear it now? Tough shit, Ol!"

Thus began the most heated argument either of them had ever experienced.

"…so fucking stubborn…!"

"…you really want to talk about that _now_?..."

"…with your broomstick stuck up your arse…!"

"…always have to be right about everything…!"

And then, it happened.

Percy paused for breath, quite sure that his face was as red as his hair by now, but he didn't care. Because the last thing out of Oliver's mouth had not been what he'd expected. When he'd shown up on his ex-boyfriend's doorstep, he hadn't expected Oliver to care about him anymore. Most people would have moved on months, even years ago. Well…Percy hadn't… but that was beside the point.

So when Oliver said 'I love you, you arsehole!' Percy couldn't help but be a little floored.

"What did you just say?"

Oliver rubbed the back of his neck, and after a moment of contemplative silence, he spoke carefully. "You know the craziest thing about all of this, Percy?" He took a tentative step forward. "The parts of you I can't stand are what I miss the most."

"I…I…" _Come on, Percy say_ something. "I…Merlin, I love you. Why'd you have to go and say that?"

Oliver grinned and closed the gap between them in a few short strides. "Because it's true, and you know I can't lie for shit." And with that, his hand found purchase in Percy's red curls and pulled him in for a kiss that was long overdue.

And if Percy had been called upon to say what _he'd_ missed the most, it was definitely snogging Oliver Wood.

* * *

When Percy walked into his room that night, Charlie was sitting up in bed, studying the contents of a Skiving Snackbox with interest. He didn't look up when Percy came in, but he wasn't able to keep the smirk off his face. "Have a good day?"

Percy just rolled his eyes, pulled on his pajamas and crawled into bed.

"You're welcome."

"Yeah, yeah."

Charlie grinned and settled in bed as well and flicked the lights off with his wand.

"Charlie?"

"Yeah?"

"…Thanks."


	17. HelenaBaron

**Prompt: hate**

**PD Boot Camp Prompt: indemification**

* * *

The Baron watches from an upper window as Helena paces the courtyard below. It's about to rain, but she doesn't give thought to the weather or his concern for her health. She doesn't worry herself over anyone else. She is haughty and selfish and beautiful. And far too much like her mother, though he knows better than to tell her so.

As he admires the furious way she stomps around on the cobblestone walkway, he is unsure if he loves her or despises her more. Just as this thought flits through his mind, the woman below pauses to look up at him. It's as if she knows he is thinking unseemly thoughts about her.

She's smirking up at him and he decides that he hates her at the moment. She's playing with him, like a cat that has caught a mouse but refuses to put it out of its misery and instead chooses to toss it back and forth between its paws. One day she seems to encourage his advances, and the next, she turns him away with obvious disdain. But no matter how close he thinks he gets, there is still an icy wall she's built around her heart to indemnify it from his advances.

And now, as she challengingly looks him straight in the eye, she is daring him to come down to her. She thinks she is so clever. Perhaps he will refrain. Perhaps he will not fall for her trap.

And yet, as his mind determines that he will not go to her, his feet move of their own accord because _his_ heart has no walls to protect it; or rather, it has no walls to contain his over-zealous affection.

It burns furiously, unreservedly, and in vain. He knows it's all in vain. But he must try to melt her defenses; it is better to have tried and failed than to give up without a fight.

Or so he tells himself.


	18. BlaiseDominique

For_ listen_

For M&MWP Drabble Tag with the prompt: not listening

Also for the Pairing Diversity Boot Camp with the prompt: pillow talk

* * *

"Blaise?"

The only response Dominique receives is an incoherent mumble muffled by a pillow. Blaise doesn't turn to look at her, and she realizes she's better off just going to sleep. That seems to be what he's decided, and before she can even get comfortable and reach for his hand, she can hear him snoring.

Blaise is never one for pillow talk, she reasons. He's never one for talk at all, to be perfectly honest. He's the strong, silent type- the strong, silent type who has a thing for girls half his age. He oozes of confidence, and what little Veela charm Dominique has inherited has no effect on him whatsoever. She thinks it's nice not having to try so hard.

Except for when they go out in public. Then she wishes she could distract him from scanning the bar for someone else. If it wasn't Blaise, it would be simple. A flip of her silvery hair and a seductive whisper in his ear would be enough for any other man.

"Are you even listening to me?" she finally asks in irritation.

"Of course," is the automatic reply.

Then he kisses her lightly on the cheek and goes to get them drinks. It always takes him longer than it should. And she thinks to herself that she will confront him later. Because she's not some silly little girl. And being with Blaise Zabini is not a fucking _honor_. And love may be blind, but Dominique is not.

And yet here she lies in a tangle of sheets next to her sleeping boyfriend who got exactly what he wanted.

Again.


	19. DracoHermione

_Remember when I said I would never write Dramione? Yeah… me too…_

_Prompt: year_

_Pairing Diversity BC prompt: never_

_This is also my "hated" pairing for the Loved and Hated Ships Competition_

* * *

It's in Diagon Alley that they first run into each other again. People are bustling and carrying on with their lives like they used to do before the world came crashing down. Children are causing scenes, Hogwarts students are shopping for their supplies, women are gossiping about the front page of Witch Weekly. Everyone is oblivious to the two people who have stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of one another.

The first thing Draco thinks is that it's odd, but he's glad they are somewhere somewhat neutral. But even so, when their eyes lock for that split second, the only thing that comes to mind is the memory of her writhing and screaming on the floor of Malfoy Manor. He remembers the manic look on his aunt's face as she brought her knife down. He remembers wanting to throw up at the sight of blood trickling down onto the floor and noticing that it was, in fact, red just like his own.

Granger's hand instantly goes to the side of her neck and he knows she's thinking similar thoughts and it makes him physically ill. What he would give to take it all back, to somehow redeem himself, to Obliviate that year from his life. An apology won't do, he knows, but he can't just walk away. Walking away is no longer an option for him.

"I'm…" The word 'sorry' gets caught in his throat. His mouth doesn't know how to form around it because Malfoys are many things, but sorry is never one of them. Or at least, this Malfoy never used to be. Before he can try again, Weasley comes to Granger's rescue and spouts off obscenities and drags her away.

From down the street Draco thinks he hears Granger say something about 'giving Malfoy a chance.'

But he doesn't count on it.

It's a few months later before he sees her again. He's at the Ministry for a hearing. She's there for a job interview.

Weasley isn't there to ruin the moment this time, but Draco thinks he can do that just fine on his own. Once again he stutters something nonsensical that might be 'sorry' but he's not sure. She raises her eyebrows in confusion, though he senses that she knows what he means. She can read him like her precious books, and for that he's actually grateful. He never thought he'd ever be grateful to a Mudblood. It's not as bad as he used to think.

They wish each other luck, and by some miracle, Draco's name is cleared. The Prophet announces that she's accepted a position at the Ministry, and before he can stop himself, he sends an owl inviting her out for celebratory tea. For some reason, she accepts.

And it is awkward.

_So awkward_.

And he's sorry for so many things, but he thinks he's sorry for putting her through such an awkward meeting the most. He wonders why she makes him lose his composure all of a sudden, or why he's so happy that she accepts his apology, or why he calls her by her first name when he shakes her hand as he takes his leave. And deep down, he knows he shouldn't have to wonder, but being in denial is what Malfoys do best, so he goes home and tries to convince himself that he is content to just forget her.

But Hermione Granger is brilliant, a know-it-all, a Mu…ggleborn…

And she is impossible to forget.


	20. CharlieKatie

_Prompt: stay_

_Also for the OTP Boot Camp with the prompt: torn_

_Annnnd for the Loved and Hated Ships Competition. This is obviously my loved ship :D_

* * *

Charlie reluctantly grabs his bag and starts heading for the kitchen. He can tell by the scent of coffee filling her flat that Katie's been awake for a while. In fact, she might have already left so she doesn't have to say goodbye. He wouldn't blame her. He feels as though he's always leaving and apologizing for living so far away as if that is something he can help. And even though she's wonderful and never complains, he manages to feel guilty anyway.

He pauses in the doorway and sees she's sitting on the kitchen counter and dressed for Quidditch practice, and he has to remind himself that he has a Portkey set to leave in twenty minutes. In a way, he's glad for it, otherwise he might not leave at all. It's moments like this when he realizes just how difficult it is to be torn between two places, between two different lives. He's done it for years, but when he stops to think about it, he has to admit that he is tired. Exhausted, really.

He meets Katie's eye and she smiles sadly and shrugs her shoulders. "Stay?" she asks quietly, even though she knows what his answer will be.

He goes over and cups her face in his calloused hands. "One of these days," he promises, before kissing her goodbye and taking his leave.

_One of these days_, he thinks. _One of these days I'll stay._

xxXxx

The pub a few blocks away from the Romanian Dragon Reserve is warm and cheery, and Katie is seriously tempted to 'accidently' miss her Portkey back to England. It doesn't help that Charlie's friends have just ordered another round of drinks or that they are currently smirking at her and Charlie from the corner as the couple walks toward the door to leave.

"They're nice," Katie says, taking his hand. She lowers her head to shield her face against the bitter wind that is blowing outside and they slowly make their way up a nearby hill.

"They like you," Charlie responds. "They think you're a keeper." He leads her over to an empty and seemingly ordinary soup can. "I happen to agree with them," he adds, and puts his arms around her. She rests her head against his chest and considers her options. There are still a few minutes before the Portkey leaves. She could still change her mind. She could walk back to the pub right now…

She looks up at Charlie and he's smiling at her because he knows exactly what she's thinking.

"Stay?" he asks. She knows he's not pressuring her. And he knows she can't stay. But it's nice knowing that she would if she could.

"One of these days," she says and pushes him away and stoops to pick up the soup can at the last second. When she finds herself alone in front of her flat she sighs and drops the can onto the ground. _One of these days_, she thinks. _One of these days, I'll kick that Portkey into next week. One of these days, I'll stay. _

xxXxx

Katie squints her eyes as cameras flash and the Holyhead Harpies push their way through the crowd after another victory against the Ballycastle Bats. The Irish team had put up a good fight but even despite the home advantage, the Harpies had won by over two hundred points. Katie ignores the shouts from fans and even from her team mates; she only has eyes for a certain Weasley leaning against the wall of the Quidditch stadium.

"Congratulations," he greets her. She grips his arm and Apparates them away before they attract too much attention. She takes him to a scenic patch of woods she'd found the other day and he nods in approval.

"It's so pretty here. I like Ireland," Katie muses.

"Maybe you should stay," Charlie says cheekily. She rolls her eyes at the reference, but then she stops to think that maybe, just maybe… No, she couldn't.

"I have work tomorrow," she reasons.

"So do I."

"But…" She stops herself and bites her lip, wondering if he's thinking what she's thinking. He takes a step forward, and the smile on his face suggests that he certainly does.

"Everyone can use a day off once in a while," he says.

"You know, I think you're right," she agrees.

"Maybe tomorrow can be…one of those days."

"Maybe it can."

And so they stay. The Quidditch team holds practice despite being short a Chaser, and the Head Dragon Keeper at the reserve thinks it's about time Weasley took a day off.

And Charlie and Katie think that one of these days they'll figure out a way to make this work. One of these days they won't have to worry about leaving. One of these days they won't need to ask each other to stay.

But for now, they have today, and they are determined to enjoy it.


	21. SeamusNarcissa

Prompt: wrong

For M&MWP Drabble Tag with the prompt: frozen bodies

* * *

It's become a routine, and deep down, you know it's probably wrong. Probably…

But you convince yourself that he needs you, because you always did like being needed, didn't you Cissy? But your husband is in Azkaban, and Draco is off trying to be Draco again without you. And perhaps you should follow his lead, but you don't. Instead you wander the streets for the sake of being somewhere that isn't home, because if home is where the heart is, then you don't have one anymore.

So, you stand at the corner of Knockturn and Diagon, and you watch as this hopeless boy gets kicked out of the pub again, and you go over and you begin to tell him off. But you can't do that for long, because he gives you that cheeky grin that makes you melt inside despite the below freezing temperature that makes you both shiver.

And unconsciously you're clinging to each other, your frozen bodies searching for warmth that they can't find at the bottom of a bottle, or with a lover. Because that's not what he is. And it's not what you want.

(No, no, that's not what you want.)

He's an unbelievable disaster, this boy. He's all slurred speeches, and failed attempts at flattery, and he's always whining about Dean.

"Dean's not here anymore, Seamus," you remind him. And it kills you to make him sad.

He really is an unbelievable, utterly beautiful disaster, this boy. So you Apparate him back to the empty Malfoy Manor and help him stumble up the stairs. And when you stop to consider, it sounds so wrong, but all you do is give him a blanket and a couch to sleep on for the night.

(Yes, yes, that's all.)

But sometimes, you don't go up to bed like you say you're going to. The fire in the parlor is just so cozy, and you're not bothering him are you?

Because sometimes you think it might be nice to have someone to be lonely with. And maybe that someone could be Seamus.

And maybe he doesn't need you.

Maybe you need _him._


	22. RodolphusNarcissa

Prompt: see

Also for the Ultimate Death Eater Contest with the prompt: "It is hard to be unappreciated"

* * *

Rodolphus waited patiently for an opportune moment to get Narcissa alone. Bellatrix might not care about parading her affair with the Dark Lord around the Manor, but he at least had some sense of pride to protect. At least in that respect, he knew he was superior to her. Not that she cared….

She thought he didn't see it, the way she hung onto the Dark Lord's arm like a lovesick schoolgirl, the way she whispered too loudly promising faithfulness and loyalty and…other things. The kind of things she ought to be promising her _husband_. But no matter. He had her sister to divert him.

Narcissa stood at her husband's side with a blank look on her face that she'd perfected over the years. It was remarkable, really, how she could keep her face devoid of all emotion. Rodolphus smirked as he caught her eye and he saw a flicker of anger behind her eyes. She was going to be stubborn today.

Finally, the group of Death Eaters began to disperse and Bellatrix swished past him without a second glance. He watched as Lucius did the same to Narcissa, and he approached her quietly.

"Perhaps I can have a word?" he said, reaching out to play with a strand of her hair.

Narcissa clenched her fists and looked as if she was about to protest, but she seemed to decide that it was best to not call too much attention to themselves. "Fine," she said through clenched teeth and led the way to an empty parlor. It was cold and dusty from lack of use, and he could see her shiver slightly.

He reached out to her again to hold her close but she shrank away. "I'm married," she said in a scandalized voice.

Rodolphus bit back a laugh. "That never stopped you before," he said. It certainly hadn't. It had been over a decade, but time had done nothing to change the past. Narcissa had never been one to worry over a thing like infidelity back then. In fact, it had been one of his favorite attributes.

"Yes, well, that was…" she waved her hands in the air, her agitation beginning to overcome her determination not to appear affected. "That was before."

"Before what, Cissa? Before Azkaban? Have the years made that much of a difference in me?"

He had advanced and she had continued to back away so that now she was leaning against the wall, his hands pressed against it on either side of her head. For the first time since he'd arrived at the Manor, he saw a hint of a smile. "No," she said thoughtfully. "You're just as much of a pig as I remember."

He chose to ignore the insult. "Why this hostility, Cissa? Haven't you missed me?" he teased.

"I'm married," she repeated.

"That doesn't answer my question. Don't deny me now. It would be so terribly unfair." He ran a hand through her silky hair and attempted to kiss her but she turned her head away.

_Stubborn witch._

"Say it," he growled. "Say you've missed me."

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words died in her throat and she closed it again with a sigh.

Rodolphus leaned down to bury his face in her neck, and he marveled at how unlike Bellatrix she was. She was delicate and sweet while Bellatrix was Amazonian and harsh. She was everything a pureblood wife ought to be, and if Lucius didn't want her, he would have her. Such reasoning probably made no sense, but he was beyond caring anymore. And he'd missed this, not just the teasing, but simply being this close to her. He needed her.

Narcissa gripped his shoulder to push him away, but he was too strong for her and she knew it.

"I see the way he dismisses you," Rodolphus said, refusing to accept her rejection. "I see the way he just casts you aside. It must be so hard to be unappreciated."

Narcissa snorted. "You would know what it's like to be unappreciated, wouldn't you, Rod?"

He gripped her wrists in desperation. He would probably leave bruises but he didn't care, nor did he heed her whimper of pain. "Don't do this, now, Cissa," he said dangerously. "I've waited too long. Can't you see?" And finally, miraculously, she did seem to see that he was sincere. Her features softened, and he loosened his grip on her wrists, pressing gentle kisses against the reddened skin.

"Rod…" she whispered. But before either of them could say anything more, footsteps sounded loudly from just down the hall and he cursed under his breath. He couldn't have someone interrupting them now. He fumbled in his robes for his wand, but to his surprise, Narcissa had already pulled hers out and cast a silencing charm on the door. He put his hand under her chin to lift her face to his and he could see the hint of tears in her eyes. She was giving in just like she always did. He knew it was only a matter of time. She couldn't resist forever.

She clutched at the front of his robes. "I'm sorry," she said tearfully. She pressed her lips to his and he crushed her in a tight embrace. "I've waited too long too."


	23. DracoHarry

**Prompt: Gryffindor**

**Pairing Diversity BC Prompt: Love hurts**

**And this is for the Hogwarts Games. My pairing was Drarry. I have officially decided that I hate Drarry even more than Dramione. :O**

* * *

"_To say that the relationship between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy is an unlikely one would be an understatement…_" reads the first line of the front page of the Daily Prophet. And as annoyed as you are that the two of you have made the front page again, you can't help but agree. But, then again, you've learned from experience that Harry is the epitome of unlikely. He's always going around doing things that defy all common sense. Falling in love with you doesn't even seem so impossible if you put things into perspective. And perhaps that should come as a relief, but it doesn't.

You know he deserves better. He deserves so much better, and maybe that's what hurts the most. Because you love him, make no mistake, but every time you open your mouth, you stick your foot in it. And instead of getting angry, he manages to find a way to think that it's endearing. You wonder how it's possible for him to forgive you when you can't forgive yourself.

If you knew love would hurt this much, you would have tried harder to stay far, far away. You would have never agreed to have coffee, or stopped to chat at work, or said all those things you were feeling because feelings always get you in trouble. You should have seen it coming; your best defenses clearly have failed you, and your natural instincts are telling you to run because that's what you always do. He's the Gryffindor in this unlikely relationship, after all; not you.

It's too late now, though. You're in too deep, and despite the fact that you feel like it's wrong, you can't bring yourself to end it. Because he gives you what you never had before. You know what it's like to have someone to love you now. And you need it.

Because if he won't love you, then who will?

"What are you thinking about, Draco?"

You start at the sound of his voice behind you, and he comes to wrap an arm around your waist. He smirks at the newspaper in your hand, but doesn't mention it. He knows you get testy when it comes to publicity. He's used to it.

"Nothing," you say.

He puts a hand under your chin and forces you to look him in the eye. It's moments like this when you are very glad he's such a terrible Legilimens, though you suspect that it doesn't matter. When it comes to Harry, you are completely transparent. "You and I both know that's a lie," he says.

"Old habits," you respond, and you notice that you can't keep the bitterness out of your voice.

He takes the paper out of your hand and tosses it aside. "Maybe, you ought to pick up some new ones."

"What do you suggest?"

He does not think this question is worthy of a response. Instead he leans in and captures your lips with his, and all the time you spent lost in thought has been wasted as your mind goes blissfully blank.

And as you kiss him back and tangle your fingers in his messy black hair, you think that perhaps picking up new habits won't be as difficult as you think. In fact, you think it will be a very enjoyable experience. And you realize that just because something as beautiful as this is unlikely, it doesn't mean it's impossible. It just means it's worth holding on to.


	24. AntoninLuna

Prompt: young

Also for Pairing Diversity BC with the prompt: translucent

Annnd for the M&MWP Drabble Tag: "You're a big girl now."

* * *

Rowle and Travers parade the lunatic's daughter through Malfoy Manor before taking her to the basement. She's quiet, and she does not appear afraid, at all. She holds her head up high and looks about her with curious eyes that seem to see things that other people do not. She's almost other-worldly. Or perhaps she's just a lunatic too.

Antonin recognizes her immediately; she's the girl from that night in the Department of Mysteries. He still has the scars from where she hexed him. He hasn't thought of her since then, but seeing her here in the Manor sends a shock through his body that comes wholly unexpected. He doesn't know why; what does he care for a young thing like her? Even so, he waits until the others are preoccupied and sneaks down to the cellar.

She comes to the door as if she's been expecting him.

She asks him about her father, and when she will be allowed to see him again. Antonin waves that line of conversation aside. "You're a big girl now, love. No need to worry about him."

She stares hard at him, and he wonders what she can see in him that no one else can see. He expects her to lash out, to get angry, to show that she feels _something_, but she doesn't. Instead, she tells him very matter-of-factly that she doesn't like it when he calls her 'love' and that she finds him a very unpleasant sort of person and walks back toward the wandmaker in the corner. And as utterly ridiculous as it seems that being called 'unpleasant' should affect him at all, he finds that he is offended. How curious.

It becomes a weekly thing, his visits to the cellar to see the strange girl. The others begin to notice, but they don't ask. They make assumptions about what Antonin might be doing down there with her, and he lets them think what they want.

But in reality, he's just talking to her; he's talking to her to escape reality. And even if he wants to do more, to touch her even, he fears he'd break her. Her skin has a sickly translucent quality to it in the light of his wand, and she's become so terribly thin, and he sees how her chapped lips begin to bleed when she cracks a smile.

And he still calls her 'love' because that's all he has to offer her in the way of kindness. Because Antonin Dolohov is a kind man.

He is.

No, _really_, he is.

She sees it, he knows, because she sees the things that no one else can, but, even so, she still thinks for the most part that he is an 'unpleasant sort of person.'

"But there is hope for you, yet," she says wisely. "If you want there to be."

How he wants to believe her! He wants to be better for her. He wants to _deserve_ her.

And he vows to try harder until suddenly, she's gone. She's gone, and she's certainly not coming back. Why would she? Certainly not for _him_.

The cellar is empty, and it's as if she's taken that hope with her - that tiny shred of hope that maybe he could be better. So he sits down there alone, and now the scars she gave him are all he has left to remember her by.


	25. BlaiseDaphne

Prompt: jealous

Pairing Diversity Prompt: stag night

* * *

Blaise ordered another firewhiskey and winked at Madam Rosmerta who glared at him in return. He never did understand why she was so hostile to him. One would think anyone would welcome a little harmless flattery. But no matter. Blaise's one and only purpose that night was to get Draco wasted. That's what stag nights were for, after all. And Blaise for one thought that if Draco was going to spend the rest of his life with Astoria Greengrass of all people, he'd definitely want to drink the night away.

Rosmerta came and thrust the drink into his hand and shook her head in disapproval at the group of boys who had gathered around the bar. Blaise took his glass and clapped Draco on his shoulder before heading outside for a breath of fresh air.

It was a misty night, cold but not frigid, and he welcomed the cool night air in comparison to the stuffiness inside the pub. The night was still young, but he was already beginning to be weary of the party. Blaise was never one for much socializing if he could help it, which was rare. The company his mother kept meant that avoiding social gatherings was often out of the question and he'd learned to tolerate it, but he'd never enjoyed it. He checked his watch and decided that he'd allow himself ten minutes to be alone before going back inside. And just as he determined this, his solitude was disturbed by the pub door opening and the appearance of none other than the bride-to-be's sister.

Daphne hugged her cloak tightly about her, but did not continue on down the street. Instead she moved off to the side and pulled out a cigarette. She nodded coldly to Blaise, but other than that made no other gesture that she cared that he was present.

"I didn't see you in there," Blaise greeted.

Daphne shrugged. "I didn't want to be seen."

Then Blaise understood. "You were spying on us, weren't you? What is it, you don't trust us to keep Draco out of trouble?"

Daphne rolled her eyes and kept her mouth set in a straight line, very reminiscent of Professor McGonagall. She never smiled. He'd always noticed that, and found it quite annoying. It wasn't that she was simply a very quiet person; she just seemed to be determined to be unpleasant. It was unfortunate because if she'd only attempt to be agreeable, she'd be quite attractive. "I wasn't spying," she insisted, and took a drag of her cigarette.

"Those things will kill you, you know," Blaise said.

"Yeah, yeah, so they all tell me." Daphne leaned against the brick wall of the pub and set her gaze on one of the shops across the street while she reached up to run her hand through her blonde curls.

Blaise was not satisfied though. What was she doing, creeping about in the Three Broomsticks if she wasn't spying? She'd piqued his curiosity, now, and if she was going to intrude on his solitude, then he wanted to know why.

"So if you aren't spying, then what are you doing here? You're obviously alone. Who goes out to the pub alone?"

"What do you care, Zabini? Just go back inside. I don't think Draco's had enough to drink." He noticed that she could not restrain the sarcastic tone of voice.

"Jealous?" he asked.

Daphne cleared her throat. "Excuse me?"

"You are!" Blaise exclaimed and came over to stand in front of her to better study her face. "You're jealous."

"You think I'm jealous of my sister for being with Draco? That's absurd. She can have him."

"Really?" he said, clearly unconvinced.

"Really. She can do better, actually. Much better."

"So you're hoping to catch him doing something…disgraceful? To try to break them up?"

Daphne didn't answer. She hugged her cloak tighter around her thin frame and stuck the cigarette back in her mouth.

"In which case, you lied and you _were _spying on us," Blaise concluded.

"It's a stupid plan when you put it like that, but yes," she said irritably. "And excuse me for caring about my sister's happiness."

"Oh, I think it's quite admirable, actually," Blaise said, taking a step forward and closing the distance between them. She stood her ground, much to his surprise. "But I think that perhaps you should ask yourself…" He took the cigarette from between her fingers and ground it beneath his shoe. "Why are you so worried about your sister's happiness when you're the one sitting in a pub alone?"

She reached in her pocket and pulled out another cigarette as well as her wand to light it with. "Go inside, Zabini," she said in disdain.

"Only if you come too and let me buy you a drink," he offered.

"Bugger off, Zabini."

No one ever told Blaise Zabini to bugger off. But he sensed that pushing further would not yield positive results. Besides, it was probably best to go back before the others came out to find him. He acted as though her words had no effect on him at all, and stepped back out of her personal space. "Have it your way, then."

But as he opened the door of the pub he thought he saw a flicker of a smile on her face.

Then again, that may have just been a trick of the light.


	26. SeamusGabrielle

_Prompt: far_

_For the Hogwarts Games: Men's Football- Seamus/Gabrielle_

* * *

Gabrielle sits outside Florean Fortescue's shop in Diagon Alley, pad and pencil in hand. It's a bit windy, and her sister will probably scold her for going out without something warmer on. But she needs to get away.

One would think that Shell Cottage is 'away' enough. It is certainly far enough away from France, which was the idea behind a vacation, after all. But while Fleur insists that the scenery the cottage affords should be a wonderful muse, Gabrielle disagrees. It is surrounded by never changing beauty, which is ideal for a living arrangement; Gabrielle is actually rather envious in that respect. But it provides nothing inspiring. Not for her at least. The waves kiss the shoreline before retreating, only to come back for more. The quiet is distracting. The sunsets are admittedly quite beautiful. But she needs more. She needs action, people, _imperfection._

Like the boy sitting a few tables down.

He sits here every day. He never orders anything, and he is always alone. He lounges in the sun with his eyes half closed, an unlit cigarette in his hand. He rolls it between his fingers as if debating whether he should smoke it. He never does.

She leans over her pad of paper to properly sketch the bend of his fingers and the lines of his palms, until she looks up and her subject is no longer sitting a few tables down, but leaning over her shoulder.

"I've been watching you watching me," he says with a smirk, and takes a seat across from her.

"I'm sorry…" Gabrielle begins, but he waves his hand to stop her.

"No need for apologies, miss." He motions toward the sketch and she hands it over to him for inspection. "You are very good," he says, but there's a shadow of a frown that Gabrielle can't ignore. He's thinking hard about something, and she can see he is not in the present. She clears her throat, and he grins a little sadly and hands the sketch back to her.

"Would you like to keep it?" she asks.

He considers a moment before shaking his head.

"Do you not like how I portray you 'ere?" she questions further, her curiosity peaked.

"It's not that," he says carefully. He rests his elbow on the little table and leans his head on his hand. The cigarette finds its way into his mouth but it remains unlit as he searches for words. "You…this…" he taps the sketch between them. "Remind me of someone I used to know, is all."

This Gabrielle understands, and she nods. "Who was she?" she asks.

"He was…a friend," he says. "Just a friend."

Again, Gabrielle understands. She understands what 'just a friend' means. _Everyone_ knows what 'just a friend' means. She smiles kindly at him. "Who do you zink you are trying to fool?"

"Myself, I suppose," he says, then gets up and walks away before she can catch his name.

It's all right, though. He comes back the next day. He always comes back.

She walks up to his table and greets him with a friendly smile, which he returns. It's the first time she's seen him actually smile. She decides she likes it.

"Are you ever going to light zat thing?" she asks, and sits down without invitation. He doesn't seem to mind. He continues to play with the cigarette, but doesn't answer her question, which frankly, is all right with her. She asks him another question instead. "Would you like to sit for me again, today?"

He shrugs noncommittally. "Suit yourself."

That's enough for Gabrielle, so she sets to work, scolding him when he moves too much, which is surprisingly not very often. She supposes he really has sat a lot for someone before.

"What is your name anyway?" she asks.

"Seamus," he responds. "Et toi?"

His accent is horrible and she can't help but laugh, though she appreciates the attempt. "Gabrielle."

"You seem familiar," he says. "I can't figure out where I've seen you before though."

"I remind you of a friend, remember? Tilt your 'ead to ze side."

"No, that's not it," Seamus insists. "I've seen you before. I know it."

"I am visiting my seester. Do you know Fleur Delacour? She is a Weasley now."

Seamus nods. "I did hear she married a Weasley. So you must be that girl! The one they put in the lake at the Tournament!"

"Oui."

"That's why you seem familiar to me," he says. "I can see the Veela in you."

Gabrielle just shakes her head. "I nevair learned 'ow to use my Veela charm like Fleur did, I am afraid."

"I wouldn't say that," he says cheekily.

She shoots him a warning look that clearly tells him that compliments will not get very far with Gabrielle Delacour. She then cocks her head as she sits back in her chair. The sketch is nowhere near complete, and she has made little progress while they've been talking. She doesn't want to bother him to sit any longer; she knows it can become tiresome. And so she resigns herself to the fact that it shall remain unfinished, when he unexpectedly suggests that they meet again the day after next. She gratefully accepts the offer.

(Gabrielle's visit is supposed to last two months, but somehow two months become three.)

Seamus is the most willing sitter for her. She gets him to admit that he misses it. She gets him to admit a lot of other things. And she finally gets him to ask her out to dinner, despite the fact that she's also gotten him to admit that he could never feel anything for anyone but a person who used to be 'just a friend.'

She knows this.

He knows this.

And yet, when dinner ends, he pulls her closer than she could ever hope to expect. Because despite all of her knowing, she can't repress the feeling that if he could love her just a little bit, she will take what she can get.

Or maybe not.

Because deep down he can't. Perhaps, if he isn't Seamus, and there is no 'just friend' to ruin him for all other future could-be lovers, it could work. But he is Seamus, and she is Gabrielle, and he can't love her, so she won't ask him to.

His lips hover over hers and she raises her hand to brush them with her fingers. "Who are you trying to fool, Seamus?" she asks quietly.

He presses his forehead to hers. "Can't we be fools just this once?"

She squeezes his hand, and backs away. "No, darling. We can't. We shouldn't."

As much as Gabrielle doesn't want to, she walks away, before he can become nothing more than 'just a friend'. And she hopes that he will forgive her for not letting him make a fool of himself. She hopes that he will be better for it.

(If someone were to look in her bag, they would find a cigarette he never lit.)

(She wonders if she would make the same mistake twice.)


	27. GeorgeVerity

_Prompt: Christmas_

_Attempt at Christmas George/Verity fluff for TrueBeliever831. Merry Christmas dear!_

_Also used a prompt for the Pairing Diversity Boot Camp: whatever_

_And submitting this as an entry for the Fanfiction Tournaments-December. At least it inspired me to finally write this. I've been agonizing over it foreverrr_

* * *

"Why did we hire her, anyway?" Fred asked bemusedly as Verity walked back to her station at the register at the front of the joke shop, brushing Peruvian Darkness Powder off her skirt. "She has no sense of humor."

"Maybe if you stopped attempting to test every single one of our products on her when she's not paying attention, she'd come around. We pay her to be a cashier, not a guinea pig, after all. Besides, she does too have a sense of humor," George replied and shoved a handful of Christmas decorations in Fred's direction.

"A very, very _dry _sense of humor," Fred muttered.

"The best kind in'nit? She just doesn't want to give you the satisfaction of knowing she thinks you're funny."

Fred shot his brother a suspicious look. "What are you defending her for, eh?"

"What?" George shrugged. Fred smirked at the way his brother's ears began to turn pink, giving him away. "I'm just saying you could be a tad nicer to your employee."

"You fancy her, don't you?"

"Unethical!"

"Not a denial!"

"I…you…"

"You DO!"

George's shoulders sagged in defeat. There was no way he could outright lie to his twin. It was impossible, for one. And lying was the most grievous of sins in Fred Weasley's book. It was no use.

The truth was, he really did fancy her, if only a tiny bit. She was tomboyish and pretty without trying to be. Not to mention, she could definitely hold her own when it came to the twins' teasing. Who wouldn't find that attractive?

"Still unethical," George insisted, and set to work hanging up garland on the spiral staircase leading up to the second floor.

"And since when did you care about rules? Oh, this shall be fun…"  
George groaned. This would certainly not be fun. This would be bloody embarrassing.

* * *

The next day, when George came down to open the shop, he found that Fred had already got to work without him. Clearly, he'd been busy with things other than adjusting merchandise. Every ten feet in all directions, he'd hung mistletoe from the ceiling.

"That's not _charmed _mistletoe, is it?" George asked in horror.

"Of course, it is!" Fred beamed, quite pleased with his idea.

"Fred!" George looked up in order to avoid stepping underneath any mistletoe. He carefully made his way toward the back room. "Our customers are not going to appreciate this."

Fred did not seem to think this was a matter of concern. "They'll get over it. In the meantime, they'll have to suffer until you do something about Verity. You have until Christmas Eve, or I shall be forced to take drastic measures." He rubbed his hands together.

"I'm not going to do anything about her. I fancy her. Doesn't mean she fancies me, mate."

"We'll just see about that, won't we? Besides, she's always much nicer to you than she is to me. Can't be a coincidence, can it?"

"Whatever you say, Fred."

As anyone could have predicted, the charmed mistletoe idea backfired spectacularly. There were many punches thrown, free Skiving Snackboxes given away as compensation, and much laughter from behind the cash register where Verity had the sense to stay put. Every once in a while, George would catch her eye from his safe haven he'd found under the stairwell, and grin. She'd just glance at Fred who was doing damage control and roll her eyes.

And while George was never one to read too much into things like that, he couldn't help but wonder if Fred's idea wasn't such a bad one, and perhaps, maybe he should loosen up when it came to his ethics. Maybe…

Much to George's amusement, he'd eluded Fred's attempts at matchmaking all the way up until Christmas Eve. He'd considered telling Verity to take Christmas Eve off to save her some embarrassment, but of course, that was out of the question; it was the busiest night of the year. This fact, however, did not stop Fred from taking the drastic measures he'd threatened George with before.

The shop was packed, and Fred had disappeared. George stood on his toes to scan the crowded room for him. He spotted several people wearing the magenta staff robes, but none of them were Fred. He figured perhaps, he'd gone to the second level. He slowly made his way toward the stairs when he felt something pull him in the direction of the backroom. Before he could make sense of what was happening, he was dragged into the dark room away from the crowd. An elbow jabbed him sharply in the ribs, and he felt what he assumed to be rope wrap tightly around his body.

"Ugh, FRED!"

"_Lumos_."

Fred lit his wand and leaned against the door with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. George looked down and saw that the elbow still pressed painfully into his ribs belonged to Verity who was bound to him not by rope, but a string of Christmas lights. "Fred, this isn't funny."

"I disagree. I'll be back to check on you soon, don't worry." And with that, he left them alone taking the light with them.

George stood very still, wondering how on earth he was supposed to explain this to Verity who, aside from her elbow, was pressed up rather comfortably against him. She clutched his shoulder to keep her balance. "George?" she squeaked. "Why is this happening?"

"Because my brother is an arse," George said bitterly.

"Well, I know _that_." Verity shifted a little in an attempt to get her wand which was in her pocket, just out of reach. "But why are we tied up?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he pretended to be more preoccupied with getting to his own wand in order to free them. But Verity was curious now, and she wanted answers. "George?"

"Because Fred thinks he can play matchmaker. Hence the mistletoe, and Christmas lights, and chaos!" George was very glad it was dark because he was quite sure his face was the shade of the magenta staff robes they were wearing. "Now, do you think you could reach my wand? I think your hand is close enough to get it."

"A girl could take that the wrong way, you know," Verity teased. "And you won't get your wand until you tell me what you mean by playing matchmaker."

_Seriously?_ "You are just as bad as he is, you know that?" George responded. But he could see, that this was exactly what Fred wanted, and the sooner he got it over with the better. He took a deep breath. "Fine! I like you, all right? I think you're very pretty and amusing, and I wouldn't mind being tied up with you at all if this wasn't so bloody awkward."

The silence following this declaration was unbearable. George was going to murder Fred as soon as he got free of these Christmas lights. He didn't see that happening any time soon, though, as the cord was beginning to cut off his circulation and he couldn't feel his hands anymore. However, he felt Verity move, and by some miracle she was able to grab his wand out of his pocket.

"Verity?"

"Hmmm?"

"Say something?"

"Oh, sorry, I was just thinking…" She flicked the wand, and the Christmas lights fell away, freeing them. She stumbled forward, so that he had to catch her, and he noticed she didn't seem to be in a hurry to back away. She stuck his wand behind his ear. "I don't think I'd want to be tied up with anyone else," she said. "But Fred doesn't need to know that, does he? I don't fancy giving him the satisfaction."

"I like the way you think," George agreed, wrapping his arm tighter around her waist.

"Good." She stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him soundly. "Merry Christmas, George."

"Merry Christmas."


	28. TerenceOliver

Prompt: eyes

Also for the One Hour, Two Drabbles Challenge with Oliver and prompt: reckless

**Terence Higgs was the Slytherin Seeker before Draco Malfoy. OliverTerence=MMWP :D**

* * *

You lean back on your broom and wipe the sweat from your brow. The sun is unforgiving today. And despite the great height, and even though you are in the middle of a team meeting, you are distracted because you can feel his eyes on you. You always can.

You know you shouldn't, but you look down anyway.

There he is, lounging in the stands, waiting for you to finish practice for the day. He's a Slytherin. He's on the opposing side. You're holding Quidditch practice, and he's watching you, and you should be telling him to sod off and book the pitch some other day, but you don't. Instead, for the first time that you can remember, you wish you were sitting on the bleachers.

With him.

It's one of those things that you ought to find incredibly upsetting but at the same time you don't mind at all. Because he looks at you with that smirk that says he knows exactly what you're thinking. He knows there is a small part of you that wishes you weren't you.

He_ knows. _

It's this thing that Seekers do. They watch and they wait. And they are patient and they anticipate things. They _know_ things.

And you don't know anything; only that you should be more concerned about the game, about your teammates, about your _own_ Seeker.

But you always were a risk taker, weren't you Oliver? You always did fixate on things you don't need. _Want_ maybe. But never need.

It's reckless- traitorous, even. And while the Gryffindor Quidditch team assumes you are drowning yourself in the locker room showers, you are really only drowning in a pair of slate gray eyes that refuse to look away. It's as though he can't stop watching this grand disaster that you are allowing to happen, like a traffic accident or a splinching. He can't look away.

You're drowning, Oliver. You're in too deep, and you're drowning.

But you've never felt so alive.


	29. RoxanneLilyluna

_Prompt: fair_

_Also for the Femmeslash Project Challenge. Prompt: "I'd be happy to die for a taste of what Angel had. Someone to live for, unafraid to say I love you."- Rent, Goodbye Love_

_Roxanne always comes out in first person. It's very odd, but I kind of like it._

* * *

I have never been good with words.

I think I might have too many of them lodged in my throat. Some days I can practically feel them pressing against my voicebox, fighting for their chance to be free. But they are rebellious things that stick to the roof of my mouth whenever Lily looks at me. They make my tongue swell with all the things I want her to know but can never actually say out loud. And it seems they only let go and come spewing out in fumbling afterthoughts and half-finished sentences when it is too late and the moment has passed. After I am left alone, and she has walked out the door, red-faced and raving more often than not.

And it is times like these that words have been rendered useless, and all I can do is scream instead.

It isn't bloody fair.

So there are many nights like this that we sit in silence on the couch with her head in my lap, her eyes fixed on her copy of Witch Weekly and my eyes fixed on her, and I wish there was a way that I could explain to her. I wish I could tell her that the night we broke into my father's joke shop and set off all the fireworks was the night I fell in love. I fell in love with the way the sparks reflected in her eyes and the sound of her laughter between the fiery cracks and the crash of Skiving Snackboxes falling from the top shelves. I fell in love with recklessness and bracing ourselves for the impact of doing what we shouldn't.

I want to tell her I fell the moment we decided to put on Headless Hats and try to kiss each other. It was one of those ideas that was better in theory than in execution. But it was fun all the same, and I still remember being thankful that my cousin couldn't see my face the first time I finally kissed her on the lips. At the time, I thought she'd be disgusted by how much I enjoyed it.

People always did say that I would see fireworks, but I never really believed them.

I wish there was a way to explain to her that she wreaks havoc with my heartstrings whenever she starts to think too much about _should_ and _shouldn't_. And how we are perfect for each other, but if only she wasn't her. Or if only I wasn't me.

If only I wasn't me.

I love words, and I hate them, and I want to say what I mean when I mean it. I want to apologize when I should. And scream "I love you" with reckless abandon. I want her to say it back and be genuinely happy with me and say fuck anyone who disagrees.

But for now, I continue to sit here in silence with her head on my lap and a magazine against her chest that gently rises and falls in her sleep.

And I will try to convince myself that I am just saving all of these words for later.


	30. ParvatiLavender

**prompt: love**

**Also for the Hunger Games Competition with the prompts: Divination, Astronomy Tower, candlestick, oblivion, and "I never meant for this to happen."**

* * *

Your tea has gone cold and you doubt the leaves have anything to say that you don't already know. Lavender looks over at you eagerly but then frowns as she discovers your teacup is still full.

"What's wrong, Parvati?"

You shake your head to say nothing, though your eyes linger on the roll of parchment she's hidden beneath her Divination book. It's scented and covered in hearts and _Won-Won_ and you are so sick of pretending that it doesn't bother you. You are tired of smiling while your heart is slowly crumbling but not shattering, never shattering. No. Glass shatters but you are not fragile enough for that. You are a Gryffindor- daring, nerve and chivalry and all that rubbish, and you have to admit it does take a lot of nerve to fall for your best friend.

Meanwhile, she is completely oblivious to the fact that if she were to really look at her tea leaves she'd see only you. They speak of jealousy and unrequited love and the promise of something good. Trelawney squeezes her shoulder in approval then instructs you to drink your tea. It's awful but you don't pay much mind.

You're too busy pondering the meaning of misinterpretation and how easy it is to see what we want to see. And how easy it is for others to ignore what's right in front of them.

* * *

She's crying again and she looks exactly how you feel, but you can't let it show. That's not what good friends do. You flick your wand at the candlestick on the nightstand separating your beds. In the dim light you meet her eyes, swollen with tears that never cease to flow these days.

"Sorry I woke you up."

She wipes her face on a handkerchief and for a moment you consider moving to crawl into her bed, to hold her tightly in your arms. But somehow you don't think it's a good idea. Somehow it just seems wrong because she's thinking of someone else's embrace and that's what hurts the most. So you play your part once more of a sympathetic best friend. And the words come of their own volition, ego boosting and true in a generic sense.

"He's not worth it, Lav. You're better off," you say.

"Yeah, I know."

"You can do so much better than him."

"Yeah, I know."

"I love you."

And your heart is in your throat because you didn't mean to blurt it out. That's not what you meant to say but you've never meant it more. And she only smiles weakly and says "I love you, too."

Just not the way you want her to.

* * *

The second time you say it, you're in a room that gives you exactly what you need when you need it. You suppose the room has decided that you need a little shove in the right direction. You still haven't quite figured out how it works.

One moment you're walking over to your hammock in the corner and the next you're tripping over someone's trunk and onto the floor. There is a tangle of limbs as you collapse on top of Lavender who just happened to be in your path.

"Hi," you say distractedly. You can feel her breath against your neck and her hands are gripping your waist and this wouldn't be so bad _if only_…

"Hi," she responds, gently pushing you off of her but she doesn't get up and you find yourselves lying in the middle of the floor. It's not as though either of you were in a hurry, and there's nowhere else to go.

"Lav?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

She raises her eyebrows in surprise but doesn't hesitate to say it back. But she still doesn't understand. And perhaps it would be best to leave it at that and keep the line between what was said and what was meant blurry and uncomplicated.

Yes. Perhaps it would be best. But that never stopped you before.

"No." You take a deep breath and try again, putting emphasis on every syllable. "I. Love. You."

You give her a minute to let the words sink in. It's awful and you already know what her response is before she says it because she's Lavender and she's your best friend and you know she could never feel anything for you. Not like that.

"I… can't." And then she's up and leaving you alone in the middle of the floor. You don't cry because if there's one thing you've learned it's that crying won't get you anywhere. And besides, your sympathetic shoulder just walked away.

* * *

You swing in your hammock facing the wall and you can hear her sniffling behind you. It's late, but you can tell that everyone around you is asleep. You don't think you can look at her right now. You don't want to see the disgust on her face so you stare straight ahead and whisper.

"Lav?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

"I never meant for this to happen. It just… happened."

"I never meant to just leave you like that. That's not what friends do."

At this you can't help but turn to face her. It's late and you can barely make out her features in the darkness. But when your vision adjusts you find there's a tear running down her face and she's looking at you not with disgust but with worried eyes because she knows exactly how you feel. And she's the one who made you feel this way.

"Are we still friends?" you ask.

"Yea," she says. "Still friends. Always friends."

You are silent for a while and you consider drifting off to sleep, but as happy as you are that she is still your friend that doesn't make this any less painful. Because you want to talk about it and you have no one else to talk about it with.

"Lav?"

"Yeah?"

"My heart hurts."

"Mine too."

And yet you love her anyway.

* * *

The last time you say it, you're too late.

And you replay the night's events in your mind from the beginning, counting all of the missed opportunities. Because even though she knew, that doesn't mean you shouldn't have told her one more time.

It starts at the top of the Astronomy tower and you know you really should have told her then. Right before the Death Eaters made their grand entrance. Right as the clock struck the hour. But you didn't.

Then you were hiding in a secret passageway behind a tapestry watching the castle fall apart around you. It was screaming and people running and a giant peeking its head through a hole in the wall. It was you holding onto her hand for dear life and thinking the words but your voice was caught in your throat.

Then her hand let go and you should have pulled her back, should have said it while you still had the chance. But minutes later you were watching her fall, watching her become easy prey, watching her be embraced by oblivion.

And in an instant all the _I love yous_ you didn't say hurt so much worse than the one you never got in return. It isn't fair. And you are certain that all the tea leaves in the world could not have predicted this.

So you say it now, and you don't care who's listening. And you press a kiss to her forehead, then her cheek and then her lips before collapsing into a shoulder that can't be sympathetic anymore. The useless tears finally fall, and you shed one for every time you kept them at bay. But it doesn't matter now.

None of it matters now.


	31. BlaiseScorpius

_Prompt: gold_

_For Drabble Tag on HPFC with the prompt gold(en) and BlaiseScorpius._

* * *

"Scor?" you whisper, reaching for his hand in the dark. For a brief moment you wonder if you've woken up alone, but then you hear him move.

He rolls over in his sleep, tangling his fingers with yours. It would be sweet, but it never really is. Because somehow, your wrists always end up pinned above your head and he's anything but gentle. And somehow, nights like this that should be so wrong don't _feel _wrong at all.

And Merlin, _what_ _are you doing, Blaise?_ You're better than this. You swore you'd be better than this; you were the golden child of Slytherin. You have a family reputation that you'd rather everyone forget. So what are you doing with him?

But you suppose Malfoys just have a way of getting what they want. And the bruises he's left along your collarbone are to ensure you don't forget it.


	32. RemusSirius

**_Prompt: Black_**

_This is also for The Last Ship Standing Competition. I chose Wolfstar for some reason. And it is 800 WORDS EXACTLY OF UTTER PLOTLESSNESS, SO FUCK YOU AND YOUR WORD MIN, NAY. YOU WON'T GET PLOT OUT OF ME THIS TIME. ;D (you know I love you, darling.)_

_Prompts: hugging, sociopath, "I don't sleep so well at night…" –Imagine Dragons_

_And thanks to my lovey, Paula for beta-ing because she's amazinggggg!_

* * *

The boys' dormitory is unusually quiet. Peter's snores have grown fainter or perhaps you just don't pay them much mind anymore. In any case, it's late and you ought to be resting; Merlin knows you hardly sleep as it is, but you can't bear to close your eyes on the peacefulness of the night. You want to make the most of it while you can.

Your breath comes easiest when the moon is new. Sometimes you like to pretend it doesn't exist at all. The darkness serves as a blessed relief, a cloak to wrap around your shoulders to shield you from the offensive light that governs the night sky. And it doesn't last for long so you savor it, and the aching in your bones subsides for a night or two.

But some months, a night or two is enough. And even though it's merely a phase, you can still appreciate it because it's nights like this when you don't feel as though you're just being pulled about by the current until the next full moon breaks you against the rocks. It's nights like this when the weight on your shoulders lifts ever so slightly and the tourniquet about your chest loosens its death grip on your lungs. It's nights like this you almost think you're human.

You can hardly remember what that feels like, to be human. It's been too many years and you were too damn young, but you've been told 'these things' happen to the best. As if lycanthropy is a sort of fate a person should expect. As if it's just another disease you catch instead of something that happens _to _you.

Your thoughts are interrupted as the bed shifts beneath you. Sirius' arms wrap around you from behind and you think this might be the closest to humanity you'll ever get, to be loved in spite of yourself. And in this moment that's good enough for you.

"Still awake, love?" he asks cheekily.

"Mmhmm."

And then he's pulling you like the tide against the warmth of his chest, his heartbeat throbbing against your spine. You feel his smile and a bit of stubble scratching the bare skin of your shoulder and you wonder if he plans on going back to his own bed. You really wish he wouldn't.

"You should go to sleep," he mumbles, and he's right, you should. But you turn to face him instead, and press your lips to his silently suggesting a better idea. It's one that he heartily approves of.

He's a different shade of Black than you're used to- defiant and determined to be grey, to be something other than what his name suggests. He's the shadow of a doubt around three a.m. when nothing is as it seems but you're not sure _why,_ and he likes it that way. Unexpected and unreserved; the last moment of humanity before you've become a monster behind boarded up windows. And the first breath you take the morning after.

He's torn apart at the seams, a fellow _in between _of sorts, not belonging anywhere. And perhaps that's why you fit so perfectly, your frayed edges sewn together like patchwork. Perfectly imperfect but beautiful just the same.

Perhaps he is just as much your furry little problem as you are his. He keeps you on your toes with practical jokes…and impractical jokes for that matter. But he's always optimistic which is what gets you the most and when you're with him you remember what it's like to be carefree, and you love him. All of him- his dysfunctions and his slightly sociopathic nature, the way he traces your self-inflicted scars with a reverence you'll never understand and the way he says "good morning." And you're sure it will sound even sweeter tomorrow when you wake up to his fingers still entwined with yours.

And yet, it will still probably come as a surprise. After all, everything seems different in the light of day when the sun takes center stage. And at night its reflection mocks you, makes your blood boil inside your veins and antagonizes the monster within.

But it's when the moon is new that you can just _be_, to be Remus and Sirius without a care in the world, a tangle of limbs and sheets in the dark after all other lights have gone out. It's when the moon is new that the stars burn just a little bit brighter because they can. And it's true that Astronomy has never been your thing, but damn it if he isn't your brightest star.

Always has been.

"Always will be," you say between shallow breaths and you're thankful for Silencing Charms and drawn curtains. And nights like this when you are as close to humanity as you can possibly be.

With him.


	33. NevilleLuna

_**Prompt: No**_

_This is just a little drabble for __**Nayla**__ for her birthday because she's awesome and I love her and this is my sorry attempt at NevilleLuna. I love you, darling! :D_

* * *

The Great Hall is buzzing with activity. Mourners crowd around loved ones and others celebrate in the center of the room, basking in the sunlight the enchanted ceiling gives off. There is so much noise and confusion, sorrow and joy. Meanwhile you and many like you watch it all in silence unsure of what to feel.

It's almost like an out of body experience. The world is spinning, thoughts running through your head but none of them mean a thing. It's all too overwhelming for you to put into words as you just stand there, the weight of the sword you still grasp in your fist barely registering in your brain. But all of this is forgotten as you catch sight of _her. _

She's not like anyone you know.

Of course, everyone's always noticed that, but in times like this, she still manages to surprise you. She handles chaos so gracefully you doubt she's even human. She's a fairy child without a care in the world or so it seems to you. She tiptoes her way through the crowd, taking it all in with shining eyes and the shadow of a smile. Always a smile.

And you both catch yourself staring at the same moment. The blood rises to your cheeks but she only gives you a knowing look and jerks her head for you to come with her. It doesn't occur to you to protest, and soon, you are following in her footsteps, clumsily navigating the room, blade scratching at the floor as you drag it behind you.

You see blonde hair whip around the corner and you quicken your pace until you are standing at the entrance watching her dance among the rubble in the courtyard. She always did like dancing by herself, one hand waving free.

And some might consider such a display irreverent, inappropriate at a time like this, but you don't. Because this is Luna and it's what she does. This is Luna and she is beautiful.

With every turn, she looks at you expectantly, but you stay. Until she's coming toward you, cold hands finding yours, and warm breath against your face as she whispers a not-so-secret in your ear.

"You can't dance with a sword in your hand, Neville," she says.

You swallow hard. "No… no, I suppose not."

Without hesitation she takes it from you, and leans it carefully against what's left of the wall.

And the girl who likes to dance by herself is dancing with _you_.

And just for this moment, everything else is a blur.


	34. AlbusScorpius

**Prompt: Lonely**

_This is also a slightly late birthday present for my wifey **Ali** who has the most amazing bed in the entire world ;)_

_ Even though we are never in it at the same time :(_

* * *

he might **sting **you if you get too close,

sting you with just a word.

a _four letter word_

he's been saving

just for you.

he's got it _poised_ on the tip of his tongue.

always _**anticipating,**_ Scorpius is.

always on the [defense.]

it's the Malfoy way

of getting by these days

and you've learned to

*approach with caution.

**no** sudden moves

and

make your intentions **clear.**

and you never could leave well enough alone

_could you, Albus?_

perhaps he appreciates your persistence.

or perhaps he's just a little

lonely.

(he'd never admit that, of course.)

but somehow you find yourself in his

personal space.

and without a doubt you are

utterly_hopelessly_wonderfully

infatuated

because he's more

than just a ~razorblade tongue~

and a _**penetrating**_ stare.

he's more than a name

or a connotation.

_he's more than you could have possibly bargained for._

and the two of you together?

you're almost unbelievable.

it's nights in the common room

and the ((glow)) of green on pale, pale skin.

of quiet musings

and grass stains

and the smell in the air after it rains.

it's gentle kisses and trembling f/i/n/g/e/r/s.

it's the sound of _four letter words._

words like

need

_give_

**Love.**


	35. GinnyAngelina

**Prompt: lie**

**Also for the Harry Potter Femmeslash Project Challenge**

* * *

Angelina runs her hand through her husband's hair in an attempt to soothe him, to let him know she's there. His breaths come heavy, and he knows he scares her when he gets like this but he can't stop. It never stops.

He doesn't like to remember. His lungs can't handle the gravity of it all.

"Sleep," she says, but it falls on a deaf ear, and she presses her lips to the scarred flesh on the side of his face. And when he finally does fall asleep, she slips away.

If he ever notices her absence he doesn't say a word.

* * *

Ginny runs pale fingers over a lightning shaped scar. He says it doesn't hurt anymore, but sometimes scars hold a pain that can't be put into words, that can't be felt. She knows this better than anyone.

He says he's fine but she knows what that word means; _fine_ is the biggest lie in the world.

He mumbles unintelligible things in his sleep and he grips her wrist too tight, his knuckles white. She pulls away and he rolls over without waking. It's one of the few things she can always count on.

When she disappears at night, he never wakes up. When she disappears at night, there is no one to care.

* * *

"What are we doing?" Ginny asks, even as she's grasping at Angelina's shoulders. Even as she throws her head back, letting the woman find her pulse with a wandering mouth. "What are we doing, Angie?"

"We all just want to be loved, don't we?" Angelina responds. "Don't ruin it."

And it's gentle sighs, and dark fingers rubbing circles over the bruises on pale wrists. It's brutal honesty and words like _fine_ trampled beneath bare feet. It's whispering _I love yous_ in ears that are listening.

It's curling up on a makeshift couch in the joke shop while they let sleeping husbands lie.

Because it's true; they all just want to be loved.

They all just want to sleep at night.


	36. MollyRoxanne

**Prompt: hope**

**Also for the Harry Potter Femmeslash Project Challenge**

**This is for Allie because she is beautiful and awesome and just perfection. ily**

* * *

The world is quiet when it snows, and that's what Molly loves the most. Everything is muted, holding its breath, anticipating something nameless. Something beautiful.

The whiteness of it all covers over everything and it reminds her of purity and new beginnings and possibilities. It's hopeful somehow, and Merlin knows we all need something to be hopeful about.

She follows the single set of footprints to the greenhouse, breathing in cold air through her nose, enjoying the peace and quiet if only for a few minutes stolen between classes. Snowflakes kiss her forehead before melting away, tickling her cheeks. And she blinks them out of her eyes so she can see a certain someone leaning against the door of Greenhouse Number 3.

And perhaps this sneaking around makes it all seem wrong. And perhaps Greenhouse Number 3 is not the most romantic place to meet on the grounds. But for Molly and Roxanne it will do just fine.

"You made it," Roxanne says, and there is mischief in her smile.

Molly smiles back, quickening her pace. "Of course, I made it. You didn't think I'd stand you up, did you?"

Roxanne doesn't bother answering, but pulls Molly in by her Hufflepuff scarf, pressing kisses to her lips, the snow settling on their heads but they don't care. Because here they don't have to. Here there is no one to notice them. Here they aren't _cousins_ or _Weasleys_ or anything more than two girls who take love as they find it.

And the world looks silently on.


	37. CharlieScorpius

**Prompt: lamp**

**For Laura because I love her and CharScor and aldfkdjasfklasjdf. ily**

* * *

It's clenched fist meets bedside lamp.

It's bedside lamp meets hardwood floor.

It's too grey eyes meet blue, and this is how the end begins.

xXx

The glass shattered on the floor glitters in the fading afternoon sun. It leaves a trail like incriminating breadcrumbs connecting the two of you, reflecting the brokenness you've tried to hide. But you just can't do it anymore. You can't pretend that this is working, or that his scent doesn't trigger memories you've tried and failed to recreate, because he is so, so close and yet, not close enough.

Because you _are_ broken, and broken men do desperate things, like look for comfort in the arms of boys who don't know better yet, who haven't learned to be cautious. And of all the boys in all the world, it had to be him, didn't it? It had to be Scorpius Malfoy.

And the tragedy of it is he has no clue what he's done. He doesn't know that he just can't help being himself. He can't help not being somebody else with that same cold, _Malfoy_ stare. That same violent streak clashing with yours until something or someone hits the floor, clashing like your mouth against his, silently praying for someone to put the fire inside you out. His fingers splayed across your back like flames licking at your ribcage threatening to invade, but you could never let him in. Not really.

And it doesn't even matter now, anyway, because all you can feel is his radiating stare from across the room, burning you with that same goddamn righteous anger that you used to love and hate, that you've missed so much but it's not the same. Because you can't even feel the sting of his parting words and scorpions simply can't be dragons.

Besides, you're used to being burned, aren't you, Charlie?

You're used to picking up the pieces.

xXx

It's clenched fist meets bedroom wall.

It's weary face meets empty hands.

It's blue eyes meet their own reflection, and this is how it always ends.

It always ends.


	38. BillRemus

**Prompt: broken**

**OMG I love this pairing. I can't even explain.**

* * *

"How strange that I move to the voice of the moon,

love ringing out of tune."

~_Tides_-As Cities Burn~

* * *

_Shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't. _

It's a guilty but always silent mantra playing in your mind like a skipping record, the needle stuck in the scratches spelling out infidelity.

_Shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't._

But you do anyway.

He doesn't meet your eyes at first. He studies his feet as he digs them into the sand, and you are conscious of the fact that she's left the light on for you again. It's a faint reminder in the distance that you have someone waiting for you. Someone else.

But she doesn't understand and you don't know how to explain to her that she's not what you need. And no matter how hard you try to do the right thing, it will always be Remus.

Because he's there, coming back around like clockwork, predictable like each phase of the moon. He comes to you with the tide, and you know you can count on him to crash against your shoreline with desperate kisses and weary sighs and moonlight burning your pale, pale skin. He knows your highs and lows, that some phases are better than others, and when you're falling apart at the seams, he holds you together because he knows what it's like to be so broken, so foolish, so inhuman.

Neither of you have been very good at love and you never, ever say it, and you'd rather not give whatever this is a name. All you know is that you need it. It's about giving and taking and making half-hearted apologies because you really _shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't_ but in his arms it's hard to remember why.

"Bill," he says, and the scratches grow deeper, carving your sin into your bones, and you don't care. This record was ruined a long time ago. "Don't go in yet. Stay just a little longer."

Just a little longer.

Just a little longer and maybe she'll finally turn the light off.

Just a little longer and maybe you'll forget about what you shouldn't do.


	39. RoxanneFredii

**Prompt: color**

**Also for Camp Potter – Week 1, Day 2, Arts&Crafts**

**Prompts: blue, wind, and maybe, maybe not**

****Incestuous thoughts, ye be warned****

* * *

You got** one** N.E.W.T.

It was in Astronomy.

They always said you had your head in the {clouds}

and maybe that's true.

And a part of you wondered

what was so _wrong _with that.

Maybe you were ((searching)) for a star

BIG enough

to cast your wishes and your cares on.

A star big enough to grant you another life.

A life other than that of a **boy**

who died l..o..n..g before you were born.

You got **one** N.E.W.T.

and on the second of May

you set it on ~fire~

along with all your schoolbooks,

packed your bags and moved to

Madrid.

Told your family if they _**wanted**_ to find you

They had to =follow= the wind.

...

_It only took Roxy two weeks._

_..._

And she paints the sky

_a different kind_ of **blue**

whenever she shows up on your doorstep,

\spins/ \a\ /web\ /of/ /lies\

to help you sleep at night.

She says Mum's doing just "fine"

and the joke shop's making millions

even though you stole

the _last_ batch of Daydream Charms

the night before it |Closed|

And maybe you should tell her

(…or maybe not)

that every daydream you've had

for the **last two weeks**

Has involved parts of her [anatomy]

that brothers shouldn't want

_anything _to do with.

Maybe you should tell her

you need her,

the scent of Home on her clothes,

the way colors seem **brighter**

when she .:laughs:.

Maybe you should tell her the sky

was the _**perfect**_ _**shade**_ of cerulean

the day she fell asleep

with her head in your lap.

...

_Maybe you should learn_

_when to keep your mouth shut._

_..._

You got **one** N.E.W.T.

It was in Astronomy.

And you're beginning to wonder

if the stars you've been wishing on

believe in love at all

or if they only fall like ashes:

forgotten

and _swept away_.


	40. LucyPenelope

**Prompt: Smart**

**For Camp Potter- Week 1- Lucy Weasley**

**Also for the Harry Potter Femmeslash Project Challenge**

* * *

You watch her from the windowseat, the rain beating a steady tempo against the glass. It's the bass line for the melody she makes of the typewriter in the corner that she still doesn't know how to work properly. But that kind of thing's never stopped Lucy Weasley before. She's too much of a perfectionist and one of these days she'll get it right. Eventually.

She bends over the desk, her brow furrowed and her red hair a mess from all the times she's run a distracted hand through it. The _y_ key keeps getting stuck and you bite back a laugh as she groans in frustration. The clicking of her eager fingers punishing the keys fills the entire flat with the sound of a mind that doesn't shut off, but never has anything to say.

Everything is always a work in progress or not quite right. It's always _Not yet, Penny_ and _I'll let you know when I'm finished._

It's her way of keeping you out because she's just a scared little girl who hasn't found her place in the world yet. She's just a scared little girl who thinks she loves you. Says you're smart and funny and that age is just a number and all that rubbish, but Merlin, if she only knew.

You're not even sure why you keep her around. She's too damn naïve, and you should hate yourself for letting her look at you the way she does, with that shrewd stare she inherited from her father.

You remember that look all too well.

But nights like these when she's lost in her own little world, you can't help but wonder if she's made a place for you in it. You want to know if the stories she hides away are fantasies of a life without you. You wonder if she's editing you out or if you somehow made the cut.

And when you kiss your little perfectionist goodnight, you hope she tastes the question on your lips. And you hope she hears the perfect harmony of your heartbeat and the rain and her fingers on the keys.

You hope the story doesn't end too soon.


	41. LunaNarcissa

**Prompt: Blame**

**For Amber and Femmeslash Drabble Tag**

**Also for the Harry Potter Femmeslash Project: crossgen**

* * *

You are sorry, so very sorry. Because when you look at her all you think of is the basement. All you think of is the cage you kept her in, how thin her arms had grown, how pale her skin was against your own.

You'd be lying if you said you tried to save her. You were too worried about yourself, about the family you'd worked so hard to hold together only to watch it fall apart after everything was over.

And you are sorry, so very sorry, but she doesn't blame you. In fact, she doesn't even mention it. She only smiles like sunshine and innocence, and it's always a miracle.

You don't deserve the miracle she is. And if you ever needed proof that she really is as loony as they say, maybe it's in the way she presses her lips to yours. Maybe it's in the way she says_ love _so easily and yet she means it every time.

Maybe it's in the way she isn't sorry at all.


	42. SeverusRegulus

**Prompt: Potion**

**Also for Camp Potter - Angst with the prompts tremble, in the shadows, and fragile**

**Thanks to Allie for beta-ing and just being perfect. **

* * *

Your first thought is always that he looks too much like his brother.

Even in the dull glow of the common room he casts a shadow and carries a presence that lets everyone know just what family he comes from. The pale green light only makes you look more sickly and thin than you already are, but Regulus welcomes it like a spotlight. And even _you_ have to admit it suits him.

He comes to you with an arrogant smirk, never mind that he's a year below you. Never mind that he's coming to you for a favor. And part of you wants to refuse but the other can't help but bask in the fact that at last somebody owes you something. That finally you have something worth a damn even if it is just a knack for making potions.

A vial of liquid Euphoria exchanges hands and he gives you a Galleon for your trouble. And he smiles down at you, his words of thanks dripping with condescension because he knows you're too proud to take any yourself. It might even be possible that he knows you're holding out for the real thing with a girl who doesn't think of you as anything more than a friend.

But if he knows he never says so.

* * *

One day he finds you in the darkest corner of the library and sits beside you. In the shadows, his pale face is even more handsome. It's intimidating, and you watch him toy with the vial in his hands, anything to keep from staring. Meanwhile, his grey eyes are fixed on you and his lips are curled into that smile that is just daring you to do something stupid.

"I think you could use some, Sev," he says.

"No thanks," you mumble and tense your shoulders as he leans closer, his warm breath tickling your ear.

"It's like magic in your veins," he hisses. "We all could use some magic once in a while, yeah?"

But you shake your head no and he shakes his head in disappointment before getting up and leaving you alone to regret it.

But you'll never admit that to anyone.

* * *

It's the weekend after Christmas break and you've been avoiding the emerald tinted spotlight so as not to put your black eye on display. He sees it anyway, though. He sees everything and once again he makes a dangerous suggestion.

"It helps, sometimes," he says, and you think it's the most genuine thing he's ever said. "I would know."

He slips you a Galleon and his hand lingers over yours just a little longer than usual. Your heart skips a beat which takes you too much by surprise to respond, and by the time you've thought up the words to say he's gone to wherever it is he goes to spend his euphoria.

You wonder if he has anyone to spend it with.

* * *

He comes to you more often as the school year goes on. Part of you, the part of you that wanted to refuse him in the first place begins to worry because you see the haunted look in his eye. You hear the need in his voice.

And for the first time he actually says thank you before he slips a Galleon into your palm, which makes no sense. Of course, it's all in politeness but Regulus Black is many things and polite is not one of them.

But then he grins, and your heart skips again, and you push that nagging feel to the back of your mind.

And it's all just so confusing, isn't it?

* * *

He comes to you with outstretched hands, fingers trembling, begging for a fix. And his eyes don't shine anymore. His words are no longer condescending and his face is drawn. The glow of the common room only serves to enhance the lines of his face, the sunken eyes and the sharp curve of his cheekbones.

He's desperate and sad, and you don't know if you feel more superior or sorry. Maybe a little of both.

But in spite of all this, in spite of the mess that is before you, all you seem to care about is the softness of his fingers as they linger over yours, of the invitation you know you should turn down.

All you know is that the hope of having the real thing with Lily was too fragile, transient, fucking _imaginary_ and you shattered it with a single word.

Mudblood.

_Mudblood, mudblood, mudblood_ like a heartbeat in your head and you can't take it. You need an escape, so you take a shot of Euphoria and the magic in your veins takes hold.

He smiles and he's beautiful and you give in to him like he knew you would. His lips find yours and they are hungry because he's never satisfied anymore, this boy. He's always wanting more, and you swear just for tonight he can have all of you, if only to help you forget.

Now, instead of _mudblood, mudblood, mudblood_, it's _"Severus, Severus, Severus"_ with roaming hands and shaky breaths, and as he falls asleep against your chest his fingers find their way into yours. It's anything but right, but you don't want to care anymore. All you want, all you've ever wanted was a hand to hold.

All you want is someone to spend your euphoria with.


	43. GodricSalazar

**Prompt: Right**

**Also for Camp Potter- Week 1 – History Appreciation**

**And also for Sam because she ships this… and I don't even know what this is…**

* * *

The deep baritone of his voice resonates throughout the dungeon, and you know the echo will remain inside your chest long before you've gone to bed. It always does.

He knows it, too. You can tell just by his predatory stare and the curve of his lips as he sees that he's struck a nerve, that he's argued you into corner and that you've said something you didn't mean to.

And as you meet his silver gaze, you wonder why you always come down here. You don't know why you continue putting yourself through this. Because you insist that all you want is respect from him, an acknowledgement that your opinion is worth something.

But that's not how it ends. No, that's never how it ends.

It always ends against the wall, and his touch is just as harsh as his words. The feeling of his hands on your wrists is anything but gentle, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

And yet, after his last kiss goodnight, you dare to whisper in his ear, "I hate you."

He only smiles.

* * *

You create sparks with every collision like iron against iron. Sparks and noise, creating the sharpest of edges to balance on. You're just a tragedy waiting to happen.

And you know when it finally does, the blame with rest with you, won't it Godric? It will always rest with you.

* * *

His satirical grin taunts you from across the room, and for all her cleverness, Rowena hasn't caught on, and Helga turns a blind eye to it all. Meanwhile, you are spitting curses from across the table like a fool, but you are too damn proud to not have the last word, and he lets you. And you are certain that means you may have won this battle but not the war.

He finds you in your chambers afterward, and you shouldn't let him in but you do. Because proud you might be, but you are also lacking in self control.

And it's the dungeon all over again. Dangerous and angry and oh, so wrong and you swear to Merlin that you hate him.

And once again, he smiles in response because he doesn't believe you.

And the echo in your chest agrees.

* * *

He says he's leaving. The plans you've made are burning to the ground right before your eyes.

He's leaving just like you knew he would.

You clutch at the front of his robes, press your lips to his in farewell, and you make your parting shot.

"I hate you."

He smiles and you hate that too, and then he shakes his head in amusement.

"No," he responds, and leans into whisper in your ear. "You love me, Godric."

Then he's gone, and you're alone, and worst of all, he's _right._

And you've never hated yourself more.


	44. TeddyVictoire

**Prompt: yawn**

**Also for Camp Potter- Tech Discovery- Teddy Lupin**

* * *

Victoire is broken.

You've thought as much for a long time, but to see her now removes any shadow of a doubt.

She's broken - shattered into a thousand pieces and they're not even big enough to make something beautiful out of them. They are a powder that will be swept away one of these days, like ashes on the wind.

She sits on the ground with her head leaning against the cold brick wall of a pub in Muggle London. Her arms encircle her knees, holding on for dear life. The flashing neon lights dance across her face, but she doesn't look like the angel she swears she is. She's messy blonde hair and makeup smeared beneath her eyes. Her lipstick is nothing but a stain in the corners of her mouth. You suspect the rest is on a stranger's collar, but you don't ask. You never ask.

You don't want to know, but you've always known better than to believe that she's an angel. No, Victoire clipped her angel wings the moment she got her first real taste of danger, the day she lost her innocence for the sake of a cheap thrill.

And she always wants to be saved. Someone somewhere along the way convinced her that she truly is a damsel in distress, and that naturally you are the ideal prince charming.

It's always _I need you, Teddy_ and _you're so handsome, Teddy_ and _wont you be a dear and help me?_ And she bats her eyelashes and turns up the charm. Because she may be only part Veela but she learned early on how to use it to her advantage.

But if you could just keep your cloud-filled head about you for once, there are a million things you'd like to say to her. Brutally honest things that aren't laced with sugar and politeness. Things that would wipe that would-be innocent smile off her face. Some days you stare at your reflection in the mirror and practice like you're about to make a speech on some important topic or other. Your hair will be black so she knows that you are serious, and you always begin with her name in the most commanding voice you can muster.

And that's the problem right there, isn't it?

Because she is Victoire and no matter how stern you want to be, her name will always leave your mouth like a song. A beautiful, irresistible, French song, that never seems to end despite the fact that she broke up with you three years ago. It never ever ends and you seem to come right back round to where you started, picking up shattered pieces because they'll be swept away if you're not careful.

Somebody has to be careful; it might as well be you.

So you shove your hands in your pockets and rock back on your heels while she musters up the courage to meet your eyes. They are hazel now. Her favorite.

"Where's your wand?" you ask.

She rolls her head from side to side, bright eyes taking in the multi-colored lights. "Home," she says with a yawn.

"Why the hell would you leave it home, Victoire?"

She shrugs her shoulders and slowly starts to push herself up. You don't bother to help her and you take just a little satisfaction in watching her struggle. It makes you wonder when you became so bitter. This is not the kind of person you used to be.

She doesn't seem to notice any of this; rather she is intent upon being condescending. "It's Muggle London, Teddy, dear. No need for wands here, right?" She stumbles to her feet and she presses her hands against your chest for balance. They are freezing and you feel her nails scrape against your skin through the thinness of your shirt. "Besides," she says and leans forward to press her lips against your throat, "I have you."

And it occurs to you now, in the middle of this lonely street that if all prince charmings are enablers, you deserve a thousand kingdoms filled with broken girls with names that don't end. You'd save them all from the messes they've made and tuck them in every night. And then you'd greet them in the morning with glasses of water and a Pepper-up Potion that never does quite relieve the perpetual hangover. You'd get drunk off the whiskey on their lips that a stranger bought them the night before and you'd spend your whole life hating yourself for being so damn nice.

It's all so sickening you consider leaving her here with the neon lights and the cheap alcohol to keep her occupied, but you bite back the cutthroat response and do your final good deed of the night. You sweep her off her feet like any good prince charming does and Apparate her home.

And you tuck her in and you don't kiss her goodnight, but leave her with a whisper.

"You don't have me anymore."


	45. BlaiseVictoire

**Prompt: blue**

**For Laura who requested BlaiseVictoire… and then this happened. :-)**

* * *

You're better than this, Blaise.

She's a child.

A stupid_pathetic_**needy** beautiful child.

And you never could resist a {pretty face}

could you?

Never could _keep your hands to yourself_.

She's a **Weasley** but

she looks like a /goddess/

and some days you think

she's _barely_ even human.

And some days you think _neither are you_.

Because you _**swore **_you'd be better than this,

that you had standards

and sense and self control

and that she is just another **silly** _little_ girl,

the kind of girl you can't stand

because she's too naïve

to believe that she is **anything**

but your ((entire world.))

The kind of girl

who adores you,

her **blue** eyes so full of life,

so vulnerable and free

and everything you swore you'd never be

because **L**ove is a

f.o.u.r. l.e.t.t.e.r. w.o.r.d.

that /kills/ you with every

beat of your pulse.

_and yet_…

She somehow finds her way

into the crook of your arm

_every_

**goddamn**

night,

her silvery hair .:tickling:. your chest

and her steady, steady breaths

kissing bare skin.

And the **lipstick stains** on the collars of all your shirts

are entirely _too _familiar.

(Your mother was always so good at removing them wasn't she?)

They are just another reminder

that you've been weak.

(Just like the rest of them were.)

This is what happens when you let _**blood traitors**_ in your bed.

This is what happens when you let your guard

d

o

w

n.

(You're better than this, Blaise.)

This is what happens when you fall in love

with a **Weasley**.


	46. ScorpiusGinny

**Prompt: shame**

**Also for Camp Potter: Tech Discovery- Scorpius**

**Thanks to Paula for the pairing suggestion. New favorite crossgen pairing, I think ;) **

* * *

It's the same every night, this sick routine Ginny's fallen into. It was so easy that she barely even realized it was happening. It was as easy as falling into bed.

(Too easy. Too, too easy.)

Her quickened heartbeat and the occasional squeak of the bed frame echo in her head like a gunshot. It unsettles the dust that has gathered at the bottom of the birdcage in her chest. The cobwebs hanging between her ribs sway in the breeze she makes with every exhale against the pale skin of his shoulder.

In the dim light of the fire in the grate she sees the marks her teeth have left behind, the places where she's had to bear down because she doesn't trust her mouth. Doesn't trust herself to keep names straight, to not let a _DracoDracoDraco_ slip. Old habits and all that.

So she hisses into his mouth with every thrust of his hips. Whispers Scorpius like a snake in the grass and lets the last syllable drag on forever because she doesn't want to stop moving. Doesn't want this to end because when it does regret will catch up to her like always. It will roll over her in waves and he will lie on his side and watch it all in fascination because he doesn't understand.

He doesn't see that she's nothing but a shell of what she used to be. He doesn't see she's just holding onto a memory he carries around in his face, the way he walks, the way he fucks with the lights on because he thinks she's beautiful. And she doesn't have the heart to tell him that it's been a long time since she's been beautiful. Since before he was even thought of.

And she marvels at the way she feels her shame crawl up her spine like a spider towards its web, just another web to join the others.

It makes her shiver.

"Are you cold, love?" he asks. So concerned, so comforting and clueless and it's all wrong.

(Too wrong. Too, too wrong.)

She shakes her head no, but she pulls his arm around her shoulder anyway, lets him press his chest against her back and his lips against the side of her neck. She lets him believe that this is okay. And it's a sick, sick routine, but she just can't help herself.

She never could.


	47. RoxanneDominique

**Prompt: Home**

**This is for Camp Potter (week 4) - Tech Discovery- Roxanne**

**Also for the Harry Potter Femmeslash Project - angst**

* * *

If Dominique was a melody, then Roxanne thinks she surely knows it by heart.

It's the kind of melody that sounds like home, familiar and soft. It's nostalgia set to a metronome, steady and perfectly timed. And you don't realize it's there until it's gone.

Isn't that always the way?

Roxanne doesn't need to write down the notes; she hears them in her sleep, her fingers twitching in time to the unsteady rhythm of her heartbeat. So she sits down to the piano and lets everything fall away. And she's never liked girls who feel sorry for themselves, never had much sympathy for pathetic people who cry over lost loves like it's the end of the world and _Merlin, what is she doing?_

Her fingers punish the ivory keys for hours and she knows the sound is all wrong. She is offbeat and angry and her _forte_ ought to be a _piano_ because this should be a quiet tragedy, not for anyone else's entertainment. But she's never claimed to be a great composer and she's lost all sense of caring because she needs something to fill this silence, this empty void.

And the sound of a missing songbird is more devastating than any ballad known to man so she only chooses the saddest notes, blends them into harmonies that rise and fall like Dominique's chest when she sleeps. And the dissonance of elbows against the keyboard represents the moment everything fell apart.

Because the thing about songbirds is they have hollow bones, nothing solid to anchor them to the ground and Dominique was always such a flighty one, wasn't she?

Roxanne wonders if her heart is hollow too.


	48. AlbusGellert

**Prompt: Bright**

**For Camp Potter – History Appreciation- Gellert Grindelwald**

**Also for GingerHannah who always leaves the loveliest reviews. :)**

* * *

You should have seen it coming.

It's not as if no one warned you. It's not as if he didn't tell you himself. He flaunted his reputation, made himself a martyr and you hung on every word. And he watched it all with bright eyed amusement and a perfect smile and such a seductive mind.

He is a great schemer, this boy, spinning a glorious web of possibilities, swearing that every door is open to you with just a little magic and a bit of ingenuity. And he knows how to work his magic, doesn't he, Albus? He knows what he is capable of.

He scribbles notes that you can barely decipher and you love the fact that his mind works faster than his fingers can write. You love the fact that his owl flying through your window at two am has become the soundtrack of your summer. You love the way he knows what he wants and isn't afraid to grasp it.

He's got his cards up his sleeves and making up the rules as he goes along. He knows exactly what he's doing and you are envious, intrigued, _infatuated_. And you swear you'll follow him to the end of the world as you know it, bring empires to their knees and cause a great revolution all for the greater good.

It's long walks and late nights and almost saying things you know you'll regret. It's the touch of a hand before he goes home and the hope of something more than a friendship born of conspiracy. And he says he believes in you, says he sees potential, says words like _together_ and the all the rest fades away because yes, love is blind, but that's only because it's delusional.

It's too late before you realize that he's got you right where he wants you. He's got you suspended from your heartstrings like a marionette and he danced you to the edge, but he didn't push you off. He just left you hanging by your fingertips, hanging onto child sized coffins and bloody noses and the grass between your fists.

And you want to hate him for it, but in the end you only hate yourself because you should have seen it coming.

You should have seen it coming, Albus, you fool.


	49. RitaPansy

_Prompt: clothes_

_For the Femmeslash Drabble tag: Pansy/Rita, dodgy_

_Also for the Harry Potter Femmeslash Project: crossgen_

* * *

"We accept the love we think we deserve." – Stephen Chbosky

Pansy Parkinson is many things. She's smart and cunning and everything _Slytherin, _and she knows so much better than this. She is _not_ a fool and she knows better than this. But we all need an excuse to be weak sometimes. We all do stupid things.

And besides, Pansy isn't concerned about her reputation anymore. She has nothing to lose, and those are the kinds of girls that Rita prefers. And love is just another word that can be used against her so she doesn't consider the consequences, doesn't consider the cost a sacrifice.

She takes the woman's hand and they find themselves in a room above the dodgiest bar in town, the kind of place where mistakes happen and no one bats an eye. And it's shedding clothes and common sense and inhibitions. It's too much alcohol and quick quotable moments that no one will ever read.

It's the most foolish thing that Pansy has ever done.

"You're beautiful," Rita says, running her fingers through Pansy's hair. She kisses her forehead, tells her what every girl wants to hear. It's how she gets her way and for tonight, Pansy will let her. "So beautiful, love."

"I know," Pansy says, feigning confidence and hiding her disdain. "So are you."

She turns the light off anyway.


	50. RemusRegulus

**Prompt: yes**

**I haven't written anything in ages and this is probably crap. But it's something. *shrug* **

* * *

Regulus Black is many things. He's handsome and proud, a caricature of a Pureblood that seems to satisfy everyone's expectations. He is dark sense of humor to match his features. He is silky smooth voice, tinged with just enough condescension to not be offensive, but for the most part, he is quiet. It's always the quiet ones, isn't it?

The reason he is quiet is because yes, Regulus is many things, but above all, he is observant.

He sees the way Remus looks at Sirius, adoration radiating from deep amber eyes. He sees that this is more than a boyhood crush, transient and temporary. How could anyone not notice? And yet, he sees the way Sirius is utterly and blissfully oblivious.

Regulus sees it all from the sidelines where he's been told to wait for opportune moments, to keep his nose clean. He watches and he waits until he becomes too, too tired of waiting and watching this pathetic display.

And Regulus swears that he isn't a fool. But what else would you call someone who clings to hands that wish they belonged to another? What else would you call a boy who knows the hiss in his ear at night is the sound of _SiriusSiriusSirius _dying to escape? What else would you call someone who condescends to sneaking around the Forbidden Forest so as not to be caught?

Remus folds his hands on his bare chest, staring at the few stars that can be seen between the leaves. Even now, Regulus can't help but study him. He is beautiful when he's angry.

"There are monsters in here, you know," Regulus says conversationally, leaning over to press his lips to Remus' shoulder.

Remus clears his throat, tries to pretend that he's not choking on self- loathing. He's not very good at it. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I know."

And with that, he gets up and walks away, leaving Regulus alone on the forest floor to sulk even though he's known all along how it would go.

Because Regulus Black is many things, and he swears he isn't a fool. But fools have a way of not seeing what is right in front of them.

Don't they?


	51. KatieLeanne

Prompt: Name

Also for Camp Potter. Prompts : Brighter than sunshine, December, surrender

Thanks to Sam for the pairing suggestion

* * *

Katie is a _wounded bird_

with a song caught in her throat,

an off key melody coursing through her veins

that can't [escape]

set to a heartbeat that _**races**_

to an unsteady, _unhealthy_ rhythm

And it never,

ever

s.t.o.p.s.

So approach with caution, Leanne,

and leave your bedside manner at the door;

she's not _dying_ and she won't have it.

These sterile sheets are not white flags

to signify her surrender,

and even in this body that's become a |p|r|i|s|o|n|

she is beautiful.

She is wounded and beautiful with a smile brighter than sunshine

reflected off the snow.

And it **burns** your eyes and hurts your heart _just a little bit_

because you remember Hogsmeade in December

and arguing over the importance of Quidditch

and Unforgivable moments you'd do anything to erase.

You remember this gorgeous**strong**_beautiful_ bird flying so high,

so high you thought she might not come down.

And you remember days _**not**_ spent alone in a hospital room

{falling in love} with the way her hands shake

and the StUtTeR of your name

as it rolls across her tongue.

And you wish that things were different,

and that it didn't have to be _like this_,

that you could hold her and harmonize with the melody

written in her bloodstream, matching every quivering note,

rising and falling with every breath.

That visiting hours could be e_x_t_e_n_d_e_d

just long enough for you to get up the courage to say

_I love you._


	52. MariettaDaphne

_Prompt: Witch_

_Word Count: 366_

_For Femmeslash Drabble Tag. Prompt- oil lamp_

* * *

Marietta sits alone, always alone, a Potions book propped open on the table in the library. It's 3 am- the witching hour, or so they say. And she is one witch who can't sleep until she's seen it pass by.

She makes the library her safe haven. No one would think to look here, and she can't bear to sit alone (always alone) by the light of day. She can't bear to see the judgment in the other students' stares. Can't resist putting her hand to her blemished features as if that will make them disappear.

She's been branded as a sneak, so sneaking around is what she does, doing homework in the dim light of an oil lamp. And she thinks that no one sees, but she's wrong.

Daphne can be sneaky too. She quietly sinks into a chair across from Marietta, startling her. Daphne only smirks.

"Gets lonely all by yourself, doesn't it?" she asks pointedly.

"What's it to you?"

But there's a tear running down Marietta's cheek that Daphne can't ignore, that she can't resist brushing away. The crying girl flinches, but Daphne doesn't pull back. "We all get lonely sometimes," she says.

"It's…" Marietta mumbles, noticing how close Daphne's gotten. "It's…late."

"Yes," Daphne agrees. "It is."

"Maybe we should leave."

"Maybe we should." Daphne waits for the other girl to make the first move. But Marietta stays, her gaze unwavering, eyes shining in the flickering light of the lamp. Daphne smirks again. "Do you want to leave?"

Marietta swallows thickly. "Not really."

Daphne boldly leans forward, her lips brushing the side of Marietta's face before whispering in her ear, "Then stay." She closes the Potions book. They won't be needing it. "Be lonely with me."

Marietta hesitates but then she nods, quivering hands reaching up to tangle in Daphne's hair. "Okay."

And it's two lonely people doing what lonely people do. It's quiet kisses that leave an aftertaste of regret, and whispers of _so beautiful_ that Marietta knows not to believe. It's giving in and being weak and reveling in not giving a damn, just for tonight.

The oil runs out at half past the witching hour and neither of them cares.


End file.
